


Draco Malfoy and the Rune of Euphorus

by tisfan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Gender Dysphoria, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Post-War, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transitioning, Transphobia, Trauma, dead naming, full transition, magic solutions, transphobic doctors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2020-07-10 20:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19911760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: After the Second Wizarding War, the young people of Hogwarts try to start over. Some of them go back to school. Draco Malfoy, no longer head boy, no longer rich, no longer powerful, is coming face-to-face with the idea that he's lost even more than he knew.Draco has lost many things in the war, but as he goes through the trials of this final year of school, deals with his father imprisoned, and the loss of his rank and privileged, Draco discovers a few things that he may have gained.





	1. The HenchWitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrenchKey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchKey/gifts).



> This novel is for the Fandom Trumps Hate auction, 2019. Originally, it was supposed to be a 5,000 to 10,000 word story, and it accidentally exploded on me, mostly thanks to Ariana Filch, who you'll meet in the story. I hope you love her as much as I do.
> 
> FrenchKey was my bidder for this, and they've been very patient with me as I write it around all my other stories. This fic is not finished yet, I'm several chapters out from here, and my plan is to post the new chapter as soon as the next one is done (ish...) At the moment, it's taking between 2 and 3 weeks to write a chapter.
> 
> I will be moderating the comments for this fic because:
> 
> I'm an American, not British, so forgive my American-isms that might slip in from time to time. I've tried to keep the tone as British as possible, but-- eh, I don't know. Brit Picking is absolutely allowed, as long as it's followed up with how to fix it. Actual Brit Pick comments will not be published, just used to FIX problems, so if you have something you want to say about the fic, please put those separately. That way, I can treat edits and suggestions like edits and not get down on myself for having them all aired out in public. Thanks for understanding that! 
> 
> This fic is also about a trans character who has not finished transitioning. The other reason I'm moderating comments is that in a few trans stories/tumblr head canons I've seen, people have attacked the author and character transitioning in a way that greatly upsets _trans readers._ The idea of this fic is to support my trans friends and readers, not have them ending up feeling attacked in the comments by other readers.
> 
> I appreciate your patience with this.

Being on the Hogwarts express hadn’t been as bad as Draco had been expecting. No one bothered him. A few weency little first years, their admissions letters clutched in their tiny fists, or showing off their new owls, or robes, or trading chocolate frog cards, had allowed him to share their car.

Draco wasn’t a prefect anymore, nor was he head boy. Those roles had passed on to the rising fifth and sixth years, and the headboy and girl were seventh years of their various houses.

Draco, like the other eighth years, wasn’t even a _Slytherin_ anymore. There’d never been an eighth year class before. But for the handful of NEWT students who’d skipped their seventh years because of the second Wizard War, there were a lot of new things.

They were going to be in the newly dubbed Scamander house, and all the students would be together, sharing a new wing of Hogwarts, taking their classes together, and cooperating.

No Scamander prefects, the letter had explained. No Head Boys. Just one class, for this one year, and then disbanded.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” one of the girls asked, tapping his knee imperiously with her fingers. 

There was always that vague pause while Draco decided what to say-- a lot of people took it as snobbery, or deliberation, but really it was only that hint of confusion. Because Draco didn’t always know who he was, or who he was supposed to be. He fought the urge to pull his school robes closer over his chest, or check in the mirror to make sure he hadn’t slipped up. But he knew he was still himself, as he always was.

“That depends on who you think I am,” Draco said. Coldly, because that’s how he always was. He’d never quite figured out how to be inviting. He made friends through his connections, and he didn’t have those anymore.

Or friends.

“Malfoy,” the girl breathed, as if she was awed.

“Yes?” Meaning, yes, why? But also making sure he was Draco Malfoy. Sometimes he thought maybe he didn’t want to be Draco Malfoy anymore. He’d given some serious consideration to skipping this eighth year nonsense, go to the Continent, and come back in a few years after studying abroad. There was no money for that, and Draco was, in fact, considered a war criminal and he had to check in with his parole wizard if he left the school. No Hogsmeade for him, not this year.

“Thought so,” she said. “I’m Ariana Filch.”

“Filch as in--”

“Yes,” she said. “So, we’re going to be really good friends.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Well, Filch is my great-uncle, and he’s a Squib. Everyone thought I was Squib, and I’m not very good at this magic stuff. Uncle Argus says you’re one of the best students at Hogwarts, but you don’t got anymore friends, so… I’m not gonna have lots of friends either. I figure, we can have a go at it, yeah?”

Draco took a deep breath. He didn’t have any friends.

Some of them were dead, some of them were in prison. And the Scamander house was going to contain at least three bloody ex-Gryffindors. 

Draco could use a henchwitch. 

“Sure. Let’s be friends.”

***

Despite the fact that there was a table set aside for the Scamanders, no one was sitting at it. The first years were clustered in a terrified group near the end of the Great Hall. Several of them stared up at the floating candles, and Draco remembered how they’d looked that first night, when he was full of eager anticipation, knowing that he’d soon be accepted into Slytherin, and that he’d be _home_. Welcomed.

Despite still smarting from Potter’s out and out rejection of him, the way the other kids had laughed. The way Potter had smirked at him, like he knew something was wrong with Draco. Knew that he didn’t belong.

The way he didn’t take Draco’s offered hand.

But the Great Hall and the Sorting Hat had taken all that away. Had been reassuring. 

He’d never been away from home before, not even for a few days to spend at a friend’s. Too risky, and everyone knew it.

The class was smaller this year; Draco didn’t know if that was from the war, a combination of less wizards and witches than there had been before, or if more parents were not interested in sending their children away.

Muggle-born who’d been driven into hiding and who might not have gotten their owls. Who might not _know_.

 _What a loss that would be for the school_. His father’s voice, mocking and far away. No one cared what Lucius Malfoy thought anymore. The House of Malfoy was fallen. His father was serving a seven year sentence in Azkaban, and while it wasn’t the horror it had been before, it was bad enough.

Mother… she fluttered helplessly around the Malfoy manor, purposeless.

It was a loss, Draco decided. There were less than twenty First Years, Hagrid standing over them like a guard. The magical community was so small, and whose fault was that?

Draco blinked a few times, and looked away. Headmistress McGonagall was presiding over the staff table, and Professor Sprout carried the Sorting Hat in to place it on the stool.

The entire school seemed to hold its breath as the first students came up, tried on the Hat. Sorted. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw gained new members.

Ariana Filch went to Hufflepuff, and appeared more resigned than delighted, going to sit near the very end of the yellow draped table. One of the second year students asked her a question, and when she nodded and pointed at the Caretaker, her uncle, they moved away from her suspiciously. Rude.

No Slytherins.

“Well, what did you expect?” There were murmurs all around the room. “Not a witch or wizard that went bad-- traitors… fled the battle of Hogwarts...”

“If the rest of you would take your seats,” McGonagall said, standing up to give the start of term speech.

The empty Scamander table mocked them. 

As one -- they always were, three bodies and one brain between them -- the Chosen One and his bookends moved over, definitely, and took their seats.

At the Gryffindor table. 

The first years gasped. Second and third years looked both terrified and rebellious, they’d lived through the last year, with the Carrows and they weren’t entirely free of that fear, even now. The upper students burst into wild applause, not only from Gryffindor's table, but from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff as well.

Ariana looked at Draco, rolled her eyes.

Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs shifted around to make room for their old housemates.

And Slytherin stared at the table, not looking at Draco and Blaise and Millicent, the only 8th year Slytherins.

Draco didn’t know -- were they not welcome at the house table anymore, or where Slytherins totally isolated from the school?

He decided he didn’t care.

Slytherins would need to adapt. The wizard war was over. They lost.

He took a deep breath.

And went to sit with Ariana Filch.

***

“Did the hat talk to you, the hat totally talked to me inside my head, and why doesn’t anyone ever tell you any of the things you need to know? Like, I can have a pet, but where’s she supposed to sleep?” Ariana babbled as soon as he sat down.

“Attention, students,” McGonagall said, and Draco didn’t bother to turn his head in her direction. It was a welcoming speech, like so many others that he’d heard before. “This year, as you all know, we maintain the proud tradition of starting and continuing the education of our young wizards and witches, to prepare them for their lives and to create a sense of community among all magical peoples.”

Draco rolled his eyes, carefully, where no one could see him. He was staring at his plate, and under the table, Ariana offered him a grubby, nail-bitten hand. Draco reached down and squeezed it.

“As you all no doubt know, those bonds have been sorely tested, but justice and truth won out in the end,” she continued. Well, of course. There probably would have been a similar speech if Voldemort had won, since Voldemort would have been the one giving the speech. “To the end of strengthen our bonds, I would like to introduce some of our new faculty. Professor Fleur Weasley, who will be instructing our Transfiguration classes in my place, and Professor Bill Weasley, who is taking this year only to be closer to his wife and family, and will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

There was an excited murmur in the hall, and Draco wanted to do nothing more than slide under the table and die of frustration. Two Weasley _teachers_ , as well as the Chosen One and his admirers. This year couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“In respect for our bonds, and to get past this terrible event as quickly as possible, we remind students that, no matter what side was chosen in the war, we are all one people again. Fighting will not be permitted, magic is not allowed in the corridors, and--”

Draco stopped paying attention. There wasn’t much he needed to know, aside from that this year was going to be miserable. The only perk was that being home was likely going to be worse, so he’d make the best of it.

Dinner appeared on the table.

And if anyone tried not to pass dishes down to Draco, he didn’t notice that either, because Ariana was making certain he was well fed and watered.

It didn’t matter. Not like he was hungry anyway.

“Mister Malfoy?” 

Draco looked up to see Madame Pomfrey standing near him. “Yes?”

“If you don’t mind, dear, could you please stop by the hospital wing immediately after the feast? We have some things to discuss.”

“Are you sick?” Ariana asked him.

“Probably something to do with my parole,” Draco said, which was a lie, because he knew exactly what it was about, and everything was going to be different from how he’d planned it, and-- he didn’t want to talk about it.

He never wanted to talk about it.

“Well, that’s good, I hate being sick,” Ariana said. “I’m allergic to a lot of healing magic, so instead of making me better, it makes me worse. My face gets all puffy and stuff. It’s a disaster.”

“Sounds like it,” Draco said.

He did notice, at least, that his favorite dessert was offered among the selections, and he ate a slice of bakewell tart very slowly, enjoying every bite. And, also, waiting for the Great Hall to clear out so no one would notice when he had to go off to the Hospital Wing.

Of course, that didn’t go according to plan, either.

The upper classes left first, they all knew where their common rooms where, and the prefects were busy gathering up the first years.

Draco pushed the last few crumbs around on his plate, and then--

“Malfoy,” Harry Potter said.

Draco’s wand was not as much of a comfort to him as it should have been. It was still new, and on top of that, the Ministry had laid a number of enchantments on it. Because Draco was a dangerous war criminal.

“Potter,” Draco returned cooly, standing up and putting his back to the professor’s table. Surely Potter wasn’t about to start something in the Great Hall. Granger was with him, but the Weasel was near the door, watching, his arms crossed and his scowl sadly lacking in ferocity. He probably thought he looked dangerous, but Draco thought he just looked ridiculous.

“I… er…” Potter started, and Granger nudged him in the back. 

“Go on--”

“Stop rushing me, Hermione,” Potter said. “Look, your mum saved my life. And we have a lot of history between us. Care to, uh, make a fresh start?”

“Let bygones be bygones and all that?” Draco scoffed. “You wish.”

“Yes,” Potter said. “Yes, I do wish that. Will you shake on it?” Potter offered his hand.

 _You won’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort._ Draco’s own words echoed in his ears. Had he really ever been that young?

“Will you be content with us ignoring each other?” Draco wondered.

“Yes.”

Draco let his palm ghost along Potter’s, feeling the scrape of a work-callused hand, and strong fingers. The hand of a Quidditch player. The hand of a warrior.

“Then it’s a deal. You don’t talk to me, I won’t talk to you.”

There was a sharp spark between his skin and Potter’s, like they’d sealed some sort of bargain, and he glared at Granger because she would set him up, she was always setting him up.

Granger just shrugged, not intimidated, but also not guilty. And not starting in on one of her “well, of course, you know, I had to try the Adiuro Charm…” that she was famous for. Maybe she hadn’t done anything.

Draco pulled his hand away, and walked out of the Great Hall without looking back.

Weasel bumped shoulders with him on the way out, nearly sending him staggering into a wall.

“Mister Weasley, that will be five points from Scamander House for unnecessary roughness,” McGonagall snapped.

“But Professor, he’s in my own house,” Weasel protested, and Draco didn’t stick around to hear the rest of it.

He couldn’t decide if he was glad that someone was keeping an eye on the Chosen One and his friends, or if he was concerned at what a close eye someone was keeping on _him_. 


	2. The UnCommon Room

“Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey said briskly, as soon as he entered the hospital wing. “You may wait in my office.” There were a few curtained off beds, already.

One student, a tiny little first year based on the shadow, was sobbing helplessly. Madam Pomfrey had a big bottle of Calming Draught for the first year. Another first year was shivering, wet, and had pulled the curtain back curiously.

“Fall in the lake?” Draco asked, because someone did it, every single year. 

“Uh-huh,” the girl nodded, rubbing her arms.

“Madam Pomfrey, you want me to get her some Pepperup? I know where it is,” Draco said. He’d spent more than enough time in the hospital wing.

“Why, yes, Mr. Malfoy, that’s very kind,” she called, her arm around the sobber. 

“Common side effect of Pepper Up Potion, is that smoke sometimes issues from the imbiber’s ears. This is not in the least bit amusing,” Draco said, doing his best Snape imitation before remembering that Snape would not be with them anymore, and that this child probably had never met him. 

The first year was staring at him.

“What house are you in?” Draco asked. 

“Gryffindor,” the first year told him. “I was trying to catch a frog. It said on the letter that I could have a frog, but I don’t have one.”

“Brave,” Draco said, then silently, _but stupid. Like most Gryffindors._ He shook the bottle of Pepper Up vigorously to get the ingredients all mixed again, poured two spoonfuls into a small glass and handed it to the Gryffindor. “Here, drink this.”

It smelled like a campfire and as Draco knew, tasted like peppermint humbugs. A trail of steam poured out of the Gryffindor’s ears and nostrils and she hiccuped twice, then, “Oh! I feel better.”

“Potions will do that to you,” Draco said. 

“Are you good at potions? My dad says it’s a hard class.”

“Very good,” Draco said. Potions was his best class, even when Potter had taken over and done amazingly after being rather average. Of course, Draco had been brewing his own potions since he was eight (well, helping his mother) and completely maintained two very complicated potions on his own since his first year at Hogwarts. Which was probably what Madam Pomfrey wanted to talk about. 

He sighed. Things were going to be hard, and get harder.

Madam Pomfrey sent the sobbing, homesick child off to their common room, and after checking Draco’s patient for fever, sent that one off too. “This way,” she said, as if he didn’t know where her office was.

“I’ve spoken with the headmistress about your, somewhat unusual circumstances,” Madam Pomfrey said. Draco blanched. As far as he knew, McGonagall had never known about his _unusual circumstances_ , although if he had to trust a professor who wasn’t his head of house, McGonagall would be the one. She was stern and unyielding, but fair. Not always above playing favorites -- she’d always supported Potter, even when he’d been up to a lot of troublemaking -- but fair.

“And?”

There were five flasks on Madam Pomfrey’s desk, and one crystal phial of pale white potion. “This is, I’m afraid, all I had the ingredients to make,” she said. “Of course you usually make and maintain your own, but certain resources are no longer available.”

“You mean galleons,” Draco said, trying not to sneer. 

“Well, and your father’s position in Azkaban--”

“I can take care of that,” Draco said. “I have visitation rights.”

“Yes, of course, dear,” Madam Pomfrey continued. “There are certain charity accounts for the school, but I did not think you would want an accounting of those potion supplies, which are required to make use of the school’s potion ingredients.”

The school governors maintained that account, Draco knew from his father’s time on that board. Draco further knew most of the students who’d taken advantage of those accounts, and used that knowledge to less than favourable ends during his first few years. “Thank you, no,” he said. 

“With that in mind, dear, the school’s decided to offer you a side-along position, here,” Madam Pomfrey said. “You can spend a few hours per week in the Hospital Room, the Greenhouse, and other needful tasks for a small stipend which we will use to purchase any ingredients you need.”

Work. She was talking about charity work. A job, like Hagrid, that was more pity than necessity. It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, to take his flasks and storm out. But once a bridge was burned, Draco had recently been discovering the efforts of rebuilding, and how fragile that structure was.

He didn’t have lots of options. His family had made several sets of war reparations, and the money just wasn’t there anymore. There were few household relics left to sell, and his mother had to maintain a small apartment and-- there wasn’t a choice.

Draco swallowed down his indignation. There would be worse insults to swallow. “Yes, thank you. Send me an owl, with whatever schedule you want me to work.”

“I will,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Go on to your Common room, dear, and I’ll see you after class in a day or so.”

Draco gathered up the precious flasks, tucking them into his robes. Half a cup, every day, with three drops from the crystal phial at night, before bed. He would do what had to be done.

There was nothing else to be said, so Draco didn’t say it. He pulled the door to the hospital wing behind him closed, and stood in the hall, trying to remember what he was supposed to do now. Work for a living. He’d known that was going to happen -- the Malfoys had been so wealthy for so long, no one had ever held a job as far as his family was concerned, for generations.

He would learn.

Without thinking about where he was going, he found himself near the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room, but paused before he actually said the password. There was no telling what his reception would be from the few Slytherins left, but Draco decided he didn’t want to know, not right now. 

He left before anyone could see him, but almost stepped on Mrs. Norris on his way up the stairs from the dungeon.

“What are you doing lurking around here, boy?” Filch wheezed, catching up with his cat.

“Going to my common room,” Draco said. “I had to stop at the hospital wing.”

“That’s not in this direction. Planning a little reunion for your old friends?”

“If I am, it’s no concern of yours,” Draco snapped. “Speak to Madam Pomfrey if you don’t believe me.”

Filch scowled. “You’re not important around here anymore, Malfoy. Don’t you forget that.”

“You need not be concerned,” Draco said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Mrs. Norris stared at him, her orange eyes glowing in the near dark. At one point, he and some of the other Slytherins had tried to bribe the cat with fish and sausages and milk, but she’d proven a loyal, if unpleasant beast.

Draco just shook his head and walked off. Filch didn’t scare him; punishment didn’t scare him. Detentions. Hah. He’d lived with the Dark Lord in his home, seen a teacher murdered at his own dining room table. What was polishing the silver or going for a stroll in the Dark Forest compared to that?

The war had changed everyone, Draco thought.

He already knew what the worst was. He’d lived through it, and he was going to continue to live. On his own terms.

***

“Is someone throwing a party and forgot to invite me?” Draco sneered. The so-called common room was full of the 8th year students. Potter and his pals, Neville Longbottom, and some Gryffindor girl that Draco had seen before, but couldn’t remember her name. The one Patil girl from Ravenclaw -- the other one, he’d heard, had gotten married right after the war ended -- and Terry Boot, Oliver Rivers, and Sue Li, all with Ravenclaw badges pinned to their houseless robes.

Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hannah Abbott represented what was left of Hufflepuff, who were sitting close together, near the fire.

The common room itself was comfortable, if mismatched. Not the graceful, elegant furniture that Draco was used to from the Slytherin common room, or the squashy yellow cushions that he knew the ‘puffs had decorated with. The couches and chairs were from muggle second hand stores, but the house elves had repaired them.

Draco guessed. Who knew, some of the other down-on-their-luck Slytherin kids might have fixed them over the summer.

The other two Slytherins, Millicent and Blaise, were standing away from the general group, looking over the bookshelves that lined the walls. 

“We’re discussing the room arrangements,” Potter said. “There’s thirteen of us, and three rooms.”

“The girls can all cram into one room,” Granger said, trying to sound practical, even though she eyed Millicent warily. Millicent, the rumor went, had orc blood in her family. But that was only a rumor; she was as pure blood wizard as the Malfoys. But she and Granger had a bit of a rivalry, all the way back to second year, as far as Draco could remember. “We’ll take the biggest room and put five beds in there. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun, right,” Millicent said. “Like a big hostile sleep-over. You can do my nails and we’ll gush about boys.”

Millicent had always disliked Granger, smart and delicate and cute. Too cute, Millicent had always said. Like someone was going to stick a bow on her and put her in a box.

“Sure,” Granger said, looking dubious. “That’ll be… fun, I’m sure.”

“So what’s to debate?” Draco looked around the room. “Blaise and I will room with Boot and Rivers.” That would keep the Gryffindors together and from outnumbering the Slytherins. And Ravenclaws were often friendly with Slytherins; Draco knew Terry from some of his classes, he was okay. And Oliver Rivers was a quiet sort, not given to getting into trouble.

Potter looked like he might protest; Potter was his greatest enemy, his rival. He’d gotten everything he ever wanted, and then some. Hadn’t seen his entire life torn apart and thrown in the streets. And had spent the last several years being obsessed with what Draco was up to and where he was going.

Draco sometimes wondered if Potter _knew_ , and was just trying to catch Draco out.

Weasley nudged his mate, and shrugged. “It’s not a bad plan, Harry,” he said. “Keep us from having to sleep with one eye open.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Granger said. “We’re all Scamanders now. The war is over.”

Draco scoffed. Grudges died hard, as everyone in the room knew. “Not like it matters. Without a Quidditch team, we don’t have a chance of taking the house cup, and you know it.”

“Quidditch,” Granger said. “I won’t miss that.”

“Well, why not?” River said. “There’s thirteen of us, and only seven Quidditch positions. Half of us were on our house teams. We could do it. Rally a fifth team for this year?”

“Potter and Malfoy were both Seekers,” Patil said. “You’re going to convince one of them to give up the position of honor? I’d like to see that.” Everyone knew that Seekers were the most important people on the team.

“No,” Potter said, slowly. “I don’t need to--”

“Oh, come on, mate,” Weasley said. “I miss playing, Harry.”

“It’ll give us all something to do, aside from brood about the war,” Longbottom added. “I mean, not _me_ , no one wants me to play. I’m a terrible flier.”

“We’ll hold a tryout,” Potter suggested. “Malfoy and I can compete for the position. The other one can… be a Chaser?”

“And Captain,” Granger said. “That’s only fair.”

“When did we become about fair?” Draco wondered. “Sure. Tryouts. I’ll be seeing you, then, _Potter_.”

“I want to go to sleep,” Hannah Abbot said, “and I don’t care about Quidditch.”

“Right, then,” Granger said, pointing. “Girls in this room, boys--”

“I think we know how to count to two,” Draco said. He picked the room on the left of the girl’s room, not waiting to see if anyone agreed with him. Act like you’re in charge, and you are. His father’s advice had seldom led him wrong, until it had led him deeply astray. 

Blaise patted him on the shoulder as they entered what would be their home for the rest of the school year. “That was good,” Blaise said. “Let us know what we can do. Millie an’ me. We’ll both be on the team.”

Draco shook his head. Quidditch. He hadn’t even let himself think about it, but he agreed with Weasley, much as it pained him. He’d missed playing. Even playing with Potter might be better than not playing at all. He’d have to write to his mother, see if she could send him his broom. He’d left it at home, not thinking there’d be any call to use it. 

Of course, McGonagall could decide not to let them form a team. 

On the other hand, if Perfect Potter, the Chosen One, asked for it, McGonagall would probably give it to him.

The beds were standard Hogwarts beds; square boxes with drapes around them. Their trunks were already stacked at the end of the beds, as if someone else had already figured out how things were going to go. Draco’s bed was furthest away from the door, in the dark, back corner. Perfect.

He didn’t linger, going back to bed and drawing the curtains. 

Climbed onto the bed and unloaded the potion bottles onto his headboard. He pulled out the letter packet from his inner robes and the tied lock of pure blond hair. His father’s. Draco touched the strands with one finger, blinking away tears. He opened one potion, the thick gooey liquid inside, and added a single hair. The potion flared brilliant green. He could take it tomorrow, save as much as possible.

As long as nothing happened in the night, he would be fine.

Everything was going to be fine, Draco promised himself.


	3. Letters from St. Mungo's to a Dead Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco deals with being deadnamed and trans-prejudice from the hospital for magical ailements

Draco made it through his first week of classes. It seemed strange to be studying again, like nothing had ever happened. Like he’d never raised a wand against his fellow students, like--

He pushed the thought of Dumbledore falling out the window, the way Snape had just come in and done it, the way Draco couldn’t bring himself to do. The shame and the relief and--

“Watch where you’re going, _Pureblood_ ,” someone said, and there was a depth of hatred in that anonymous slur that Draco had to stop and breathe. His heartbeat was too rapid, his chest ached, there were spots in front of his vision. 

He was suddenly, inexplicably terrified. The hallway between his classes felt like it was pressing in on him, like everyone was using up all the air.

He staggered into the first open classroom he saw, pushed the door shut behind him, and let himself crumple to the floor. Draco tucked his face against his knees, shuddered, pulling himself into a ball, as close as possible. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t going to cry, he--

The door practically slammed open and Potter stormed in, wand raised like he expected to find Draco in the process of resummoning the Dark Lord or something equally stupid.

“Malfoy,” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“You’re uh, you’re not doing anything?”

“Disappointed, Potter?” Draco sneered. He got to his feet. “Thought you were gonna catch me out, did you? Just another day’s work for the Chosen One?”

“Actually, no,” Potter said. “Someone down the hall said they’d hexed you, and--”

“You expect me to believe that? You expect anyone in this stupid school to be able to hex me?”

“If it’s so stupid, why did you come back?”

That was a good question, really, and Draco didn’t have a ready answer. “I don’t expect to give you my life story, Potter. I’m not like you.”

“No,” Potter said. 

“And I don’t need your help,” Draco said.

“Malfoy--” Potter stood there, wand still dangling from his fingertips, looking both confused and half-angry at the same time. And then he tipped his head, studying Draco as if he’d never seen him before. “Are you all right, there, mate?”

“I’m not your mate,” Draco said. 

“This year, I’m afraid you’re wrong about that,” Potter said. “Here, you look upset and we’ve got Quidditch practice today. Can I just--”

“What, Potter?”

Potter traced a line in the air with his wand, like tying a bow on a grin. “Ha. It’s good practice, working on silent spellcasting.”

Draco found himself grinning, like someone had just given him a birthday gift, and he knew his favorite dessert was coming out. Confidence and content. “Cheering Charm? That’s a second year charm, Potter?”

“But you feel better, right?”

Draco didn’t want to admit it, but he did. “Yeah, so, good for you, finally mastering your second year’s.”

“Come on, let’s head down to the pitch before I have to do something drastic,” Potter said. “I wanted to talk to you about the team positions anyway.”

“Hm?” Draco couldn’t figure out where to walk; he didn’t want to follow Potter, gazing at him adoringly like half the idiots in the castle, and he certainly didn’t want Potter behind him. Spending the last year at war, Draco didn’t give his back to anyone, if he could avoid it. And yet, walking next to Potter implied some sort of… friendship.

“The suggestion was that one of us Captain and the other play Seeker,” Potter said. “I wanted to know if you have a strong opinion on who should do what.”

Draco lifted his chin. “I want to be Captain,” he said. Mostly because he believed that Potter would never take orders from him, but at the same time, Draco couldn’t imagine listening to Potter as Captain. Which was somewhat of a conundrum.

“All right, mate,” Potter said, easily enough. “I’ve had enough responsibility, honestly.”

And he walked off, leaving Draco standing there with his mouth opened, shocked.

“Is this some sort of trick, Potter?” But he was still feeling the effects of the cheering charm, and he couldn’t put the kind of heat into it that the situation merited.

“No,” Potter said. He stopped just outside the castle gate. “Do you know what happened in the Forbidden Forest. That night?” 

“Supposedly you gave your life, let the Dark Lord kill you, to protect… well, everyone,” Draco said. “The ultimate sacrifice.”

“After that?”

“He dragged you back to the castle, threw your body on the ground, and you weren’t dead,” Draco said. He’d been there for that, seen Hagrid carrying the limp body and had felt… something. A squeeze in his chest. A guttering death to all hope.

“Before that,” Potter said, “your mum saved my life. She loves you so much that she risked everything, just for the opportunity to know that you were all right.”

“What?”

“Dumbledore always told me that what made Voldemort and I so very different, the same, but like the flip side of a coin, was my capacity for love,” Potter said. “Your mum loves you. I am choosing to believe that you are… _worthy_ of that love.”

If it had been anyone else, any other situation, if Potter hadn’t brought Draco out here where they couldn’t be overheard, Draco might not have believed a word of it. Or would have lashed out in fury and embarrassment. “I love my parents,” Draco said, slowly. And he did. He would have died for them, if it had been required. He would have killed for them; to protect them.

“I know,” Potter said. 

“So, just like that, we’re mates?”

“Just like that.”

“Well, all right then, Seeker,” Draco said. “Let’s get to practice before we’re late.”

“Yes, Captain.”

***

Draco collapsed into his customary seat at dinner; they’d finally arranged the Scamander table so that it was across the top of all four of the other tables. That way, if Draco sat just so, he’d be right between the Slytherins and the Hufflepuffs. Ariana would set at the very end of her house table and they could talk, mostly sitting backward in their seats.

He ignored the way some of the teachers looked scandalized, like a ‘puff and a Slytherin couldn’t possibly be friends. A few people had made more of a fuss; Slughorn had even taken enough time out of his precious contact-hosting parties to caution Draco that “she’s a little young for you.”

Draco managed to roll his eyes and bite his tongue at that one. He wasn’t _dating_ a first year. He was nineteen, for pity’s sake. Not, he reminded himself, that dating was on the table at all. He wasn’t ready for the mortifying sensations of _being known_. And he was pretty sure that he couldn’t be loved, not for who, or what he was. A few more months, and hopefully, this would all be over.

He was just reaching for a second roll when an eagle owl swooped over to drop a letter on his plate.

Conversation stilled for a moment, while Draco picked up the letter, gave his owl a few sips out of his glass, and he flew off to the owlery. Letter deliveries were for breakfast, unless it was an emergency.

Draco didn’t even look at the letter, didn’t flip it over to see who sent it. All he knew for sure that it wasn’t a Howler, that the entire school couldn’t possibly know what the letter contained. 

He tucked it inside his robes. Emergency or not, it would wait until he was somewhere private.

Down the table, Potter was watching him intently, that same superior look of “I know you’re up to something” on his smug halfblood face.

Draco’s heart wasn’t really in the insults, even inside his own head. He felt a vast wave of shame, remembering the way someone had hissed Pureblood at him, like he was something vile and disgusting, something to scrape off the bottom of a shoe.

He jerked his gaze away from Potter and his friends. “What were you saying, Ari?”

“I was going to tell you I got detention,” Ari said.

“Yeah? I did that a few times, myself,” Draco said. He patted her hand. “Good for you. What did you do?”

Draco didn’t quite tune her out, but he wasn’t quite listening, just nodding in the right place until-- “Wait, _Binns_ gave you detention?”

Binns was the deadest, most boring, ghost teacher that it was possible to have. No one caused mischief in his classroom because Draco wasn’t sure that Binns would notice if someone set the room on fire, so most of the time, History of Magic class was reserved for talking to one’s classmates, or trying desperately not to sleep.

Or, sometimes, sleep was exactly what Draco had needed.

“He’s wrong,” Ariana insisted. “His information is biased and unfair. Wholly distorted. History is written by the winners, my dad always says it.”

“You were arguing with Binns?” Draco was still shocked by that. “How did it go?”

“I’m in detention, how do you think it went?”

“Huh,” Draco said. “You gotta tell me about this argument, what--”

So Ariana spent the rest of dinner telling him how unfairly the goblins had been treated, and the various society-led prejudices that let wizards get away with it, because non-human somehow meant less than human.

“The world isn’t a layer cake, and wizards aren’t on top of it,” Ariana said. “Which is what I told Binns, and I got detention for cheeking him.”

Draco shook his head. “Why aren’t you in Slytherin?”

“Might have been,” she said, “but the Sorting Hat told me no one was going into Slytherin for a while, that it wasn’t fair to burden new students with the weight of what others had done. To make us pay down that debt.”

“The Sorting Hat should get detention for cheek, with that routine,” Draco said.

“What’s your punishment?”

“I have to do some cleaning. Elbow grease, no magic,” Ariana said. “Not so bad, I guess. No one expected me to do magic in the first place, so I know how to scrub the floor.”

Draco nodded absently. He’d done his own fair share -- or unfair, really -- of cleaning and scrubbing, as well as more dangerous tasks. “You need any help with your schoolwork?”

Ariana nodded. “Transfiguration is hard,” she complained. “I haven’t been so much able to make a toothpick into a sliver.”

“Right, then,” Draco said. “I’ll meet you in the library tomorrow after classes, we’ll go over a few things?”

Ariana smiled at him. “Thank you.”

Draco resisted the urge to ruffle her hair, she probably wouldn’t appreciate that, and made his way out of the Great Hall to read his letter in peace.

Peace… was not to be had. He took the letter out of his robes to look at it.

_To Miss Maia Malfoy_  
_Great Hall, Hogwarts  
_ _From St. Mungo’s_

Draco took a few deep breaths and unfolded the letter.

_Dear Miss Malfoy,_

_It is our duty to inform you that the spell you requested, the Rune of Euphorus, will not be cast at this time by any member of the magical maladies staff. The resolution on behalf of Healer Alphonze Walmsley to deny this treatment was appealed, but the counsel upheld his opinion. The first duty of a healer is to cause no harm, the second is not to go against the urgings of his conscience._

_We wish you success in finding an alternate treatment, and have included several pamphlets with that course in mind._

_Sincerely_

_Ethel Hardison, Head Healer, St. Mungo’s_

The two pamphlets that fell out, one was an advertisement for a conversion therapy community, that pledged to rid him of unnatural urges and how to find happiness in acceptance of the way things were. The other was a recommendation for a Lethe potion. Forget about it, the letter said. You can’t have this, the pamphlets shrieked. This is wrong. It’s not for you. Accept yourself as you were made.

Freak.

It was in Draco’s mind to scream, shout, rage against the general unfairness of the universe. He went immediately to his common room, pulled out parchment and a quill to shoot off a quick reply.

_Ms. Ethel Hardison,_

_Might one be given an answer as to why one’s petition was so soundly rejected, and accompanied by poorly researched and unproven methodology?_

_Draco Malfoy_

He went up to the Owlery, called his owl down, and gave him the letter.

And then he couldn’t maintain the rage and indignation any longer. They’d refused him. It was either the lack of galleons, or maybe it was his family name, no longer any currency at all. Or--

_Freak._

_Misfit._

_Abomination._

Draco found a relatively quiet spot in the owlery. No one would see him here. He let himself crumple to the floor, pressed his forehead against his knees, and wept. 


	4. The Strength of the Badger

So, of course, he was alone for all of about three minutes before someone blundered into the Owlery. What the bloody hell was someone else doing up here at this time of day?

“Come on, Peek,” someone said and Draco heaved a sigh. At least it was only Ariana Filch, who was supposed to be his friend. “Let’s get you some dinner. Oh! What are _you_ doing here -- nevermind, you look like you need to wash your face. Here, I can do it.”

Ariana plucked a wand from inside her robes, licked her thumb, and said, “ _Tersus Sersum._ ” Draco flinched away from the rough feeling of someone rubbing at his face.

“What is that spell?”

“Oh, it’s just a quick scrub up,” Ariana said. “Mum calls it the ‘mum spit’ spell. You know, like muggle moms, they lick their thumb and wipe it on a kid’s face? Like that. It’s not the best job ever, but it’s easy enough. What are you upset about?”

“Bad news,” Draco said, waving the papers at her, and hoping she didn’t ask too many questions. Usually bad news from home covered a lot of territory, and these days, it was more hazardous to ask about what the Malfoy family was up to than it had ever been, and that was saying a lot. 

Ariana put her hands on her hips, looking like a ferocious mom for someone who was seven years younger than Draco was. “Remember what I said about you not having any friends? Maybe you should try talking to someone about all this. Come on.”

“What? Where are we going?” Draco demanded, except that he was already following her, so it didn’t matter. Maybe it was a Death Eater thing, he was just really used to following orders. Then he scoffed at himself. He couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to be a Death Eater than Ariana Filch. Even the Chosen One himself couldn’t be less like what the Dark Lord had wanted in a follower.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all,” Draco said. “I think I just paid you the ultimate compliment in my head.”

“Well, don’t leave it there,” Ariana said. She exited through the far door of the Owlery, where there was a smallish balcony. The rail was covered with owl droppings, but Ariana had her wand out again, casting a scourgify on the ancient wood. “And no, before you ask, I’m not planning on taking over for Uncle when he retires. I just… know a lot of cleaning spells.” 

“I wasn’t going to say that at all,” Draco protested. “Cleaning spells are useful. Mum had to learn a lot of them, after we lost our house elf.”

“Oooh, yeah, house elves,” Ariana said. “Did you know that Hermione Granger girl has a club set up for the emancipation of house elves?”

Draco blinked. “Yes, I believe I heard about S.P.E.W. quite a long time ago. That--” bushy haired, know-it-all can be so persistent sometimes, was what he was about to say, but then Ariana was off again, talking a mile a minute.

“She’s _amazing_ , you know,” Ariana said. “So smart, and despite all that, she’s really very nice. You know, a lot of smart people aren’t very nice. They think they’re all _better than_. Bad enough everyone looks down on me for having a Squib in the family, add in the Ravenclaws looking down on everyone for not being able to just… do everything right the first time. I’m glad Granger wasn’t a Ravenclaw. Best in her year, and they don’t get to claim her. Awkward for them, right?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Draco said, slowly.

“So, we’ve got Granger, who was the smartest in her year, put in Gryffindor. Me, who should have been in Slytherin, except the Sorting Hat thought it would be nice to everyone, and not single students out to be lumped in with the Death Eaters, not that it ever stopped the Hat before. Honestly, I don’t know why they use the Sorting Hat anyway, it’s not proper thinking at all.”

“Professor Dumbledore said,” Draco interrupted, where he could, “that he thought the hat Sorted too early. That we’re not. We don’t always stay the same person. That… it’s your choices that matter most.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I chose to be in Slytherin,” Draco said. “But I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t have enough information to make another choice.” He didn’t quite blush, but he felt a little ashamed of himself. “I told Potter once that if I got Sorted as Hufflepuff, I’d get straight back on the train and go home.”

“Honestly, I don’t blame you,” Ariana said, giving him a crooked little smile. “Now… come on, Peek, don’t be shy.” She fumbled around in her thick hair for a moment, and when she was done, she was holding a tiny little bat, with a wingspan about as wide as the spread of her palm. “This is Peekaboo.”

“You have a pet bat. Why am I not surprised?”

“Because I’m interesting and unique and everything about me is unexpected,” Ariana said, smug. She spread her hand until the little bat was clinging to her fingers, and then she tossed it, like someone might launch a hunting falcon. “She eats insects and stuff, so I have to bring her up here. The other girls in my dorm don’t really like her very much. She’s not creepy, though. She doesn’t bite, she only roosts in my hair because I let her, and by the way, bats are not blind, they see very well, thank you.”

“I wasn’t criticizing your pet,” Draco protested, holding his hands out in surrender.

“Good,” Ariana said. 

“I think she’s rather cute,” Draco continued. “How long will she be out hunting?”

“Usually only about half hour, or so,” Ariana said. She gave Draco a long look. “Long enough for you to tell me what’s bothering you.”

Draco huffed. “You can’t tell, not like anyone, ever.”

“Who would I tell?” Ariana wondered. “It’s not like I have any other friends. And even if I did, I know how to keep a secret.”

Draco nodded. Well, he had to tell _someone_. He hopped up onto the railing, letting his legs dangle over the side. “I put in for a special procedure,” he said. “Something I can’t do for myself. At St. Mungo’s. They… they refused my request.”

“Are you sick?”

“Not exactly, no,” Draco said, although _sick_ had been one of the things he’d been called. Perverse. Disgusting. Unnatural. “I was… I was born in the wrong body, I guess. The person I am inside, the person I feel like-- that’s not what my body said.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I’ve been pretending, for the last seven years, to be my real self. Here at Hogwarts, it’s been… no one knows that I was born. As a girl.”

Ariana made an audible gulp, obviously shocked. Draco didn’t turn around to see, didn’t want to know what the expression on her face was.

“I’ve been using a combination of polyjuice and reverse aging serum to look… well, to look like my father, when he was a boy,” Draco explained. “Not, not as a lark, but because-- well, this. This is who I am, this is who I’ve always been. I just. Normally don’t look like this.”

Ariana made a humming sound, and then she was sitting on the railing next to Draco. “Well, what good is magic if it can’t fix things, right?” she asked. “I think you should be whoever you are. And I like you just the way you are.”

Draco didn’t know if he’d ever been quite so profoundly moved by anything that people had ever said to him, ever.

His parents knew, of course, and a few of the professors, but he’d mostly just never told anyone. Not Crabbe or Goyle or Blaise. He was a boy, and no one needed to know what he’d been, before. “Thank you.”

“So, what does St. Mungo’s have to do with it?”

“Polyjuice is… well, it’s not very effective, really,” Draco said. “I have to take it every single hour for my entire life. It’s like the worst tonic ever. And not to mention, it’s expensive. When… well, before the war, the galleons weren’t the problem, nor was getting hairs from my father, so I could continue on, like this. But… there’s a spell, a really rare and powerful one, that will let me, change. Permanently. But it’s supposed to be very tricky to cast, and… The only healer I could find is at St. Mungo’s, and he won’t cast the spell.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Draco admitted. “Something about the urgings of his conscience, something something. I sent a letter, to ask for clarification.”

“Well, that’s rather crummy of him,” Ariana said, kicking her legs against the rail.

“Yes, yes it is.”

They sat that way for a long time, in silence, while Ariana watched her pet bat hunt, swooping and diving out in the open air.

“Is it a licensed healing spell?”

Draco blinked a few times. “Is it, what?”

“Well, some of the various healing spells -- advanced potions and stuff -- require a special license and training to cast. Like you have to have an aparations license in order to poof around like a house elf,” Ariana said, like Draco might not have known this.

And honestly, he really didn’t. There weren’t lots of seriously restricted magic, and most of the stuff that was, well, Draco’d done it anyway. The Dark Lord didn’t bother with such pesky things like aptitude tests. If you couldn’t Apparate and he summoned you through your Dark Mark, well, you were in trouble for a lot more than underage Apparition. 

“I don’t think so,” Draco said. “It’s a complicated spell, but I don’t think it’s restricted any more than, say, becoming an animagus. I’d have to register with someone -- pretty sure about that, since, like being an animagus, there’s all kinds of ways to abuse that.”

Again, the Dark Lord hadn’t cared. An unregistered animagus would have been a blessing, as far as the Dark Lord was concerned.

But as long as you did register, the Ministry of Magic didn’t care if you knew how to do the spell. If the spell went particularly badly, you could end up hurting yourself pretty badly.

“Well, then,” Ariana said.

“Well, then, what?”

“So… Learn the spell, you baconhead,” Ariana said. 

“Are you daft?” Draco demanded, but his head was already whirling. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“You can start with the library,” Ariana said. “Or if that’s too much work, you can talk to teachers. Madam Pomfrey, maybe. Or, I don’t know, it sounds like an advanced transfiguration, so try Professor Mrs. Weasley.”

“I’m not going to a _Weasley_ for help,” Draco protested. He’d been on the outs with the Weasleys for generations; a bigger bunch of blood traitors there had never been, so said his father, so said his grandfather. Draco… probably should reexamine his assumptions, but he wasn’t going to do it _now_ , just because he needed help.

“Library it is,” Ariana said. “And if anyone asks stupid questions, you can tell them we’re learning the theory. So you can help me with my transfiguration homework.”

“You sound just like Granger,” Draco commented.

“Thank you.” Ariana beamed at him.

A moment later, Peekaboo came swooping over, an enormous cricket in her mouth. She landed on the brim of Ariana’s hat and started stuffing the bug into her mouth.

“Well, that’s just… don’t you worry about getting bug goop in your hair?” Draco wondered. His owl ate owl treats. Or sometimes rats and mice, usually on his way to deliver a letter, but Draco himself hadn’t had to deal with the dead (or mostly dead) food.

“Silly,” Ariana said. “I take a bath, it all washes off.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Draco said with a shudder.

“Come on, you can’t stay up here all night,” Ariana said, hopping down from the railing. “Go to the loo and wash your face. We can meet up in the library tomorrow, after lunch. I’m free until the bell before dinner, when I have potions.”

“You want to start _tomorrow_?” Draco asked, startled. For some reason, he was absolutely shocked at her zeal.

“I would think you would want to start right away,” Ariana said. “Besides, this sounds interesting. And we can’t do it tonight, the library closes in another half hour. I don’t need to get caught sneaking out after curfew.”

“True,” Draco said. “I did that a few times, my first year.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it,” Ariana invited.

They passed the third floor girl’s bathroom, and Draco tipped his head. “I’ve used this one for years. No one comes in here, it’s haunted.”

“The bathroom?”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

It was often easier to use a bathroom where other people didn’t go, and Moaning Myrtle had been keeping people out of this one for most of fifty years or so. What Draco had heard, she’d been murdered by the Dark Lord, back when he was still just Tom Riddle, and had stayed in the bathroom ever since.

“Draco, you’re here,” Myrtle said, gloomily. “You haven’t been to visit me in a long time, I thought you might have died in the war.”

“No such luck for you,” Draco said. “But I’ll come back and share your bathroom, if I do.”

“Promise?”

Draco shook his head. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to be a ghost, it sounded very boring. Only wizards and witches could be ghosts, and only if they didn’t have the courage to move on to the next thing after death. Or if they had some reason to stay. Myrtle’s reason for being a ghost, the haunting of Miss Olive Hornby, had died quite some time ago, and had not gone on to be a ghost, so Myrtle didn’t really have a purpose anymore, but nonetheless, she was still stuck. “I don’t know when or where I’ll die, so I can’t promise anything.”

“True,” Myrtle said. “Well, you’ll need to die soon, otherwise you’ll be too old for me.”

“I want you to meet my friend, Ariana Filch,” Draco told the ghostly girl. “She’s a first year Hufflepuff. Ariana, this is Moaning Myrtle. She’s been here at Hogwarts since the forties.”

“Wow,” Ariana said. “That’s amazing, you’ll have to tell me all about being a ghost. I know a ghost -- he lives in my Aunt’s closet, most of the time, although sometimes he comes out to have a good laugh at our muggle neighbors. You know, they’d had that show at the castle next door several times, _Haunted Hunters_. It’s a laugh.”

“You live near a _castle_?” Myrtle’s eyes went wide and huge behind her pearly glasses.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n Peekaboo is named specifically after the spokesbat for Bat World Sanctuary (https://batworld.org/peekaboo/) which is a charity I support. I’ve done some direct fundraising for them, as well as having a published book of original short stories where all the proceeds go to charity (send ask on Tumblr for more information)


	5. The Librarian and the Potionsmaster

“I feel like Granger,” Draco muttered, but he followed Ariana into the library anyway. Madam Pince was there, of course, like some great spider, just waiting for someone to set a toe out of line. For someone who was a librarian, she guarded knowledge and books as if they were more important than the person doing the seeking.

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing,” Ariana said. 

Madam Pince often asked too many of the wrong kinds of questions and was known to turn students in for investigating any sort of magic that she considered bad for the library. Which was pretty much everything aside from spells to be unable to speak, and dusting the shelves spells. So they really couldn’t ask her anything.

“Do you know what sort of spell it is?” Ariana asked him, thumbing through the card catalog. Each card was ancient, sometimes hard to read, but Ariana wiggled her wand at the cards and said “ _ legibilis _ ” under her breath. 

“What was that spell?” Draco wondered.

“Oh, it’s just a cleaning spell, makes words clearer, or bigger, so I can read them. My gram used it; made books huge so she could read them without her spectacles. Very vain, my gram. Didn’t like wearing glasses.”

“Huh,” Draco said. “You’ll have to teach me that.” For someone who said she wasn’t very good at magic, Ariana seemed to know rather a lot of magic. Good stuff, too, that Draco had never been taught. Come to think of it, most of the household spells weren’t taught at Hogwarts. Aside from Defense Against the Dark Arts, there wasn’t a lot of practical, everyday magic taught.

And one would hope at least that Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn’t  _ everyday _ .

“It’s a servant’s spell,” Ariana said. “Household magic, you know.”

“That’s what I said,” Draco repeated. “You can teach it to me, right? Let’s see, McGonagall’s an animagus, she did a unit on it, back during, oh, third year, I think. Can transform herself into a cat and back, nice as you please. I would think that self-transformations would at least be the place to start.”

“She’s a very clever witch,” Ariana said. “Anyone who can run Hogwarts after Dumbledore. I never met him, of course, and then there was all that rubbish about him in the  _ Prophet _ . But he was supposed to be the best.”

“Come on, Transfiguration sections is this way,” Draco said. He definitely didn’t want to talk about Dumbledore. 

Draco ran his finger along the spine of the books, feeling each one, checking the titles.  _ Figuring Transfiguration _ looked promising as well as  _ Transfiguring: The Ever-Changing World.  _ Ariana grabbed a copy of  _ What to Do When You Don’t Have It: A Guide to Transfiguration. _

Their piles of books in hand, Draco and Ariana pulled up to one of the long study tables and started going through them. 

“Honestly, this is a terrible way to organize books,” Ariana muttered. “It’d be a lot easier if someone made a glossary with reference materials, so you could just find what you were looking for.”

“I’m quite sure that eventually Madam Pince will retire,” Draco suggested. “You can look into being the school’s librarian for your career.”

“What are  _ you  _ going to do, once you pass your N.E.W.T.S.?”

“I, uh, I don’t know anymore,” Draco said. His original plan, such as it was, was to keep on with the family business of running the Malfoy estate, and perhaps getting into politics, like his father. That had all changed with the Dark Lord, and the War. “I’m pretty good at potions, so maybe I’ll just do that. There’s always call for a good potioneer.”

“I don’t understand why transfiguration is so complicated,” Ariana complained, turning back to the book. “I mean, once you’ve turned one cat into a cauldron, is it a spell you’re likely to ever need, ever again? Every single spell is very different, very complicated, and very limited in its application. I mean, who needs a snuffbox these days, enough so that there’s an entire spell for changing some poor animal into one.”

“It’s to explain the theory,” said a familiar voice, and sure enough, when Draco turned around, there was Granger, smug and smart and superior written all over her stupid Muggle face. “Advanced transfiguration lets you adapt the spell for whatever purpose you need. Trust me, a witch or wizard will use transfiguration in their everyday life and not even be aware that they’re doing it.”

“It’s  _ rubbish _ ,” Ariana said, and her voice was shaking. “It’s rubbish and it’s mean to the animals. I mean, what happens when you forget that your rabbit is a rug or your tortoise is a tea cup?”

“Who bloody cares?” And that was Weasley. Weasley the student, at least, instead of one of the Weasley teachers. “Probably just like taking a long kip, that. The animals never seem to mind, they don’t come out of a transfiguring and try to bite your fingers off.”

"I can see that Potter was very serious, then, when he said he wanted to have a truce,” Draco observed. “What do you want, Granger?”

She at least had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “We were wondering if you were done with this book, actually.” She was already reaching for  _ Figuring Transfiguration _ , as if Draco couldn’t possibly need the book for anything. He put his hand down on it. 

“We’re using that, go find another book,” Draco told her.

“What, for helping a mincy little first year with turning her rat into a water goblet? Malfoy, you can do that spell in your sleep.”

“There’s more in that book than basic beginner spells,” Draco said. “And we’re not done with it. We got here first, you can take your turn.”

“Do you even know what you’re looking for, because we could just copy our spell and get out of your way,” Granger offered.

“What are you looking for?”

“Asked you first,” Weasley said.

Well, of course Draco wasn’t about to tell them the truth. “I’m looking up the Animagus spell,” Draco said, defiantly. “You can get Exceeds on your N.E.W.T.S., knowing that spell.”

“Are you?” Potter asked, coming up behind them. “I found the other spell, Hermione, it’s in  _ Moste Potente Potions _ .”

“Ug, not that book again,” Weasley complained. “Don’t we have to get a teacher’s permission to look that up? We don’t have Lockhart around anymore for Hermione to flutter at.” 

“Even if I am, what’s it to you, Potter?”

“Nothing, mate,” Potter said. “Except that I’m going to be trying it, too. We could work together.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“It’s a very tricky spell,” Granger said. “A lot of things could go wrong. The only animagus--” She snapped her mouth closed as if she was getting ready to spill a secret.

“Don’t worry your bushy head about that,” Draco said. “I already know that Sirius Black, James Potter, and Peter Pettigrew were unregistered Animagi. And Rita Skeeter, as long as we’re naming names. I suppose you want to do it in memory of your dad.”

“In memory of Sirius, actually,” Potter said. He stared down at his hands, long fingers twisting around each other. “Look, you said it yourself, Malfoy, you’re the best potions student at Hogwarts. We can help each other out. I’m a fair hand at Transfiguration. Hermione’s good at research, and Ron knows all the ins and outs of wizard law. Working together is only sensible.”

“I didn’t know you lot knew how to be sensible,” Draco said.

“I’m trying something new,” Potter said, and he gave Draco a tentative smile. “Come on, when are you ever going to hear me rave about your potions skills?”

“Like I care,” Draco said, although it did feel good, being acknowledged. Snape had trained him, practically from infancy, on the delicate art of potion-making.

“Harry,” Weasley whined, “come on, mate, you don’t mean that.”

“When Sirius and my dad did this, they had help,” Potter said. “The war is over. And there’s never going to be any changes if we don’t stand up for the changes. Truce, Ron. I mean it.”

“Truce, fine,” Weasley said, although Draco suspected he didn’t really mean it. Not that Draco cared.

“I’ve got a copy of  _ Moste Potente Potions, _ ” Draco volunteered. “I’ve had it forever. You don’t have to use the library’s copy.”

“Brilliant,” Potter said. “We’ve done the Polyjuice potion a few times, haven’t we?”

Granger looked uncomfortable as she agreed, and Weasley nodded, grinning. Whatever they’d done, Draco resolved not to ask about it. 

“Well, let’s not just stand around, then,” Granger said. “These are complicated spells, let’s see what all we need to do.”

***

“So, you and I,” Draco said, ticking off on his fingers, “are casting the spell. Granger, you going to go for a try?” He’d thought he wouldn’t be able to go to Hogsmeade this year, but Potter had a word with Draco’s parole officer, and they’d come to the agreement that Draco would be able to go, as long as he stayed with Potter. Draco didn’t know if he should be grateful or infuriated.

“Yes,” the bushy-haired Muggle-born said. “Like you said, Malfoy, it’s a bonus to our N.E.W.T.S.”

“And Hermione’s positive there’s never a spell anywhere that she can’t pull off. Very determined, that way. Not me, though. I’m just helping. I don’t want to be a rabbit, or a dog, or whatever. I’ve done enough transformation spells, they’re uncomfortable.” Weasley was dabbing a potion on his skin; it didn’t do much for his freckles, but it was very slowly smoothing out the scars on his fingers.

“What happened to you, then?” Ariana asked. “And does anyone mind if I give the spell a try? Since we’re all brewing it anyway?” Draco wasn’t sure how she’d managed to go to Hogsmeade with them, except as far as he could tell, no one ever  _ noticed  _ her, unless she wanted them to. Some sort of household magic. Like a house elf.

“You’re a first year,” Weasley said. “Also, this? Splinched myself getting away from some Snatchers.”

Draco snorted. Splinches were just poor visualization.

“What, isn’t like I had a license to Apparate last year,” Weasley said, aggressively. “Do you think you can do better?”

“I’ve been doing Side-Along apparations,” Granger said, as if this was somehow important. “We all were. Splinches happen, especially when the apparators are being chased. No one performs well under pressure.”

“Which is why we need to practice,” Potter said. 

“No one’s answered my question,” Ariana said. “So, I’m just going to go with no, no one minds. Get four phials.”

“What, I’m paying for you lot, then?” Potter said, and he actually turned his attention to Ariana. “Who are you?”

“This is my henchwitch,” Draco said, putting one arm around Ariana’s shoulders proudly. “She’s a first year Hufflepuff, and the grand niece of our Caretaker. Ariana Filch, meet the Chosen One.”

“That Chosen One thing is all rubbish,” Potter said. “It could have easily been anyone else. I’m only Chosen because Voldemort chose me. It’s ridiculous, and I don’t want that title.”

“I’m not sure what you’re wanting has to do with anything,” Draco pointed out.

“True.” Potter picked up four crystal phials, matching corks, and put them in his basket. “What else do we need?”

“Mandrake leaves,” Granger said, poring over the list of ingredients, as if it had changed any. “Each of us who are casting the spell will have to hold that in our mouths for an entire month.”

“Maybe you’ll talk less,” Draco muttered. Granger glared at him as if she heard that, but didn’t bother to comment.

“That’s going to be fun,” Potter said. “At least the teachers know what we’re doing, so we don’t have to make things up.”

“Making things up is part of the fun,” Weasley said. “Least I’m not so balmy as to try it. Like my dinner well enough not to spoil it for a month, sucking on a leaf. Gross.”

“You have no idea,” Draco said. Mature mandrake leaves were about the size of a man’s finger, if a little wider, and the leaf would slide in between the teeth and the cheek. Like holding a wad of tobacco for a month. If it was swallowed, or bitten through, the potioner would have to start over. Drinking a lot of meals, Draco thought, through a straw.

“And death’s head hawk’s moth chrysalis,” Hermione said. “That’s all we can buy. The dew, the moonlight, and the storm all have to just… be lucky. And Felix won’t help us.”

“I can’t brew that, anyway,” Potter said. “And neither can you.”

“It’s barely worth it,” Draco said. “Tricky, expensive potion. For most things, it’s not worth the effort.”

“You can brew a Felix potion?”

Draco nodded. “The Dark Lord-- required it. It didn’t help him, in the end.” 

Draco didn’t like thinking about those days, either, sweating feverishly over the cauldron, knowing that if he so much as put in a drop too much occamy eggshell, the whole thing could explode.

“Even Professor Slughorn has only succeeded in making that potion twice,” Ariana pointed out. “What? He likes to talk. More to hear himself speak than to give any good instructions.”

“Wish I still had Snape’s spellbook,” Potter muttered. He paid for their purchases.

“Yeah, that’s a good thought, get the creepiest of creeps to do the work for you,” Granger said.

“Snape was a very good potion’s master,” Draco said. “I-- everything I know about potions, I learned from him.” Without Snape’s instructions, Draco wouldn’t be here, he’d have snapped years ago, gone completely mental.

“He was,” Potter said. “The very best. I had one of his school books for a while--”

“You can read his handwriting?” Draco demanded.

“Yeah, a little,” Potter said. “I got--”

“Come off it,” Draco said. “I have some of his more recent books, notes and homebrewed recipes. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

Potter was staring at Draco as if Draco’d said it was going to rain galleons. “I could kiss you,” he said.

Draco scoffed, and then realized he was, in fact, holding Potter’s wrist, like he was going to haul the man into a broom closet and kiss him. “That’s quite unnecessary,” Draco said, letting go hastily. “But, if we are going to be working together, reading through Snape’s research could be helpful. We can translate it.”

“You know, Lockhart published books,” Weasley said, slowly. “I mean, they were rubbish, but he made a lot of money. Publishing Snape’s--”

“Professor Snape,” Draco said.

“That slimy git,” Weasley said. “That could be some money, there, mate.”

“It’s worth looking into. Snape was very brave,” Harry said.

“Bravery’s overrated, mate,” Weasley said. “He was a horrible person, and all the bravery in the world don’t make up for it.”

“Professor Snape was very kind to me,” Draco pointed out. “He was my mentor. I admired him.”

“Ug, I don’t want to hear about this,” Weasley said. “You want to go over to the Wheezes, say hi to George?”

“I’ll go, yes, Ron,” Granger said. “And we should go to Honeydukes. Would you like a sugar quill?” Granger offered the treat to Ariana like it was some great favor.

“Go on,” Draco said. “Have fun. We’ll meet up at Three Broomsticks?”

Potter waited until the others had cleared out, then raised an eyebrow at Draco, his scar shifting in the afternoon sunlight. “What?”

“I wanted to talk with you about Professor Snape,” Draco said. “You’ve had a change of heart.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “He was… much more than I ever knew.”

“I’ll buy you a tea,” Draco invited. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to speak about him. I… I miss him.”


	6. The Caretaker's Cat and the HenchWitch's Bat

Potter threw himself into one of the overstuffed chairs at Madam Puddifoot’s. “You seem different,” he remarked, looking Draco over like Draco was something in a shop that the owner was trying to convince him to buy.

Draco resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest. He was fine. Everything was _fine_. “I thought you wanted to hear about Professor Snape.”

“I thought you wanted to talk about him,” Potter said. He ordered a coffee, indicated to Draco to get what he wanted, and then paid for both drinks. After they got their beverages, Potter used his wand to --

“What is that?”

“Mrs. Weasley taught me some household spells,” Potter admitted, his face going slightly pink. “When Hermione and I-- well, last year during the war. I got a bit of a taste for what Ron calls _terrible American coffee_.” What he was drinking had a heap of clotted cream and sprinkles on it and smelled like cake. “Pumpkin spice latte. Wakes you right up.”

“Smells like you liquified Christmas pudding,” Draco said.

“Tastes like it, too,” Potter said. He shoved the drink over at Draco. “You can taste it. Go on, I want to see if you make as good a face as Ron did.”

“My face is inherently superior to Weasley’s,” Draco said. He sniffed at the drink again and then tasted it. He was not entirely unaware of the looks they were getting from the other customers. Madam Puddifoot’s was a common date location, and they were certainly acting like a couple.

Hmm. The drink was stupidly sweet, rich with cream and spices. Like chai.

“Go on, you keep that one, I’ll fix yours,” Potter said. He tapped his wand on the side of Draco’s cup and it shifted a little to match.

“Very domestic,” Draco said. “You’re going to fit right in with the Weasleys.” That came out a little sharper than Draco had intended. 

“No,” Potter said, and he took a long sip of the coffee before putting the cup down. “Ginny and I are broken up again, and I think it’s for good this time. Honestly, we’re apart more than we’re together. I don’t think--” he sighed. “I wanted to belong with the Weasley family more than I specifically wanted to be with her. Stupid, I know, but they were the first family, real family, that I ever had.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Draco said, and he wasn’t sure if he was talking about Potter and the Weasley girl, or Potter’s parents, or the whole situation.

“Thank you,” was all that Potter said about that. “We’re good friends, at least. Tell me about Snape.”

“He was… like a member of the family,” Draco said. “He was friends with my parents, and my mother asked him to teach me potions when I was a child.”

Potter blinked. “Why--”

“There were some potions that my mother thought it was best I knew how to brew myself,” Draco said. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I was pretty good at potions. Not like Professor Snape, of course, but no one is.”

“He was very good,” Potter agreed. “I had his old potions book for a while; he wrote notes in the margins. Good stuff. I had to hide the book in the Room of Requirements.”

Draco nodded. “I guess there’s not much left of it anymore.”

“No, but I remember some of it,” Potter said. “And with his-- you have his notebooks.”

“After he passed, I recovered some of his personal things. There’s still some of the Death Eaters and supporters out there, who’d like nothing better than to get their hands on that sort of thing. I don’t think they have any hope of bringing back the Dark Lord, but--”

“There’s always a new Dark Lord,” Potter said. “I got to learn some things about Grindelwald and that lot, back in the day. I won’t stand for anymore dark wizards.”

Draco all but scoffed. He could probably do it, at least while he was alive, Draco decided. Everyone was scared of Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, the Chosen One. And here Draco was, having tea with him. The world was a strange place, really. “I think they might take some time off, for a while.”

“I hope you’re right,” Potter said. “So, what was he like, as a person, I mean.”

Draco couldn’t quite help a fond smile. “He was very acerbic,” Draco said. “He never… questioned why I wanted to learn the things I wanted to learn, but he wasn’t at all patient. He taught be example, showed me what to do, and then would get rather exasperated when I hadn’t finished it to his satisfaction. He wasn’t… kind. Or soft. Or any of those things. He expected the very best from me, and took it as a personal affront when I didn’t produce it. But underneath that… he understood what it was like for me, not feeling-- well, not feeling right in my own body, like I was supposed to be different. He was half-Muggle himself, you know. His father-- nasty sort.”

“Half-Blood Prince,” Potter said. “That’s what he called himself. After his mum, Eileen Prince. I keep wondering, what is it that draws wizards to these terrible situations. I sometimes think the statute of secrecy hurts more than it helps. Wizards marry into non-magical families, and then are treated terribly, in a way that makes it nearly impossible for them to leave.”

“Well, no one wants to marry a Muggle and then admit that they’re being abused,” Draco said. “Imagine how that would look, go against everything you’re told is good for us, that’s expected, and then to find out how abominable it is? People stand up for Muggle rights, and then the Muggles answer magic the only way they know how? With their fists.”

Potter sighed. “Muggles aren’t all like that,” he said. 

“Your aunt and uncle--”

“Were terrible, I know,” Potter said. “I keep telling myself to forgive them, to forget about it. Doesn’t help.”

“No, I imagine it doesn’t,” Draco said. “I love my parents. They were so, so very wrong about so many things, but I love them. And sometimes, I have trouble forgiving them.”

“Did they--”

“No, no, they were wonderful,” Draco said. “My father was sometimes harsh, but he only ever wanted the best for me. Mum… well, you know her. They loved me, they’re kind and supportive. But everything I thought I knew about the world was wrong. We’re not better than Muggles. They’re not better than us. We’re the same, we just… use different tools. Some are good, some are bad.”

Potter was staring at him.

“What?”

“I just… never thought I’d hear you say that, mate,” Potter said, admiringly. “You really have changed.”

“Not so much as I want to,” Draco said. Wasn’t that even the truth? He raised his coffee. “To change.”

“To change.”

***

Ariana was telling Draco all about Honeydukes, as if he’d never been there. And they were walking pretty far behind the others, out of earshot, when she suddenly changed direction; “I have a study session with Professor MacGonagal on Tuesday,” she said.

“Really?” Draco drawled. “What for?”

“Well, I’m passing it off that you’re helping me with transfiguration and all, but… well, I thought you could come with me, and we could ask her about the Rune of Euphorus. Because, exciting as this Animagus study is, it’s not getting you what you need.”

Draco reminded himself that MacGonagal knew about his “special circumstances.” 

“All right, I’ll go with you,” he said. They were just getting to the castle gates, along with a few other students who’d gone out for an excursion, when Draco noticed large, glowing eyes stalking them. He fingered his wand, but didn’t say anything. It could have been anything, an over eager house elf wanting to take Mr. Harry Potter’s cloak or something.

But then the large, tiger-striped shape barreled over and _leaped_ , hitting Ariana in the chest and knocking her down.

Ariana yelped as she hit the ground, and then shrieked as the shape revealed itself to be Mrs. Norris.

Which might have been shocking enough, the cat didn’t usually attack students, just hissed at them, and ran off to tell Filch, but this time, the cat was yowling, and batting at--

At Ariana’s pet bat.

“Peek!”

Mrs. Norris had a jawful of bat wing, and Draco acted without thinking. His wand came out of his pocket and he yelled “Expelliarmus,” at the cat. There was a loud popping sound and Mrs. Norris dropped Peekaboo, who fluttered away as fast as possible.

Mrs. Norris growled, practically climbed up a nearby tree and tried to leap again.

“Impedimenta!” The jump was incomplete as Draco cast the second spell, freezing the cat, and she fell to the ground with an audible thump.

“You, what did you--” Filch came staggering out of the castle, moving as fast as he could. “My cat, Mrs. Norris! Are you all right?” The cat was stiff and immobile. “What did you do to my cat?” Filch swelled up like an agitated puffer fish.

“She attacked Ariana’s pet,” Draco protested. Draco spun around, looking for the bat, for evidence, but Peekaboo had fled the scene, like any intelligent prey animal would do. Ariana was crying and brushing mud off her robes, “and knocked down your niece.”

“You were using magic outside of class,” Filch spat. “Nasty, lying little maggots, I want to _see some punishment!_ ” He picked up Mrs. Norris, who was still as stiff as if she were dead. The spell wasn’t much good against magical creatures, and wore off quickly, but Mrs. Norris was a cat, and she’d probably be a feline statue for most of the next hour or so.

“What is all the fuss about?” Headmistress MacGonagal inquired. 

“These students hurt my cat!”

And then Potter and Granger and Ariana and Draco were all talking at once, protesting, complaining, sticking up for Ariana.

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, why do I believe you were at the center of all this?”

“Habit, Professor,” Potter said. “But in this case, Malfoy’s right. Mrs. Norris did attack Miss Filch’s pet.”

“That’s what cats _do_ ,” Granger said, giving Weasley a particular look and blush. “She doesn’t understand that it’s wrong.”

“Well, surprisingly enough, I can see we’re all going to be mature about this,” MacGonagal said. “So. Mr. Filch, I would appreciate if you could put some more effort into containing your cat. I am as fond of the animals as you are, but the students are also attached to their pets. Her punishment, I believe, has already been handed out by Mr. Malfoy.” She turned her attention to Draco. “Ten points to Scamander house for standing up for your fellow students and quick thinking. But, you did use magic in the castle, and, I might further add, against your parole. For that, you will serve detention, please report to my office after your classes tomorrow.”

“Peekaboo is _hurt_!” Ariana protested. 

“Then please take her to Professor Hagrid, I will give you special leave to do so after hours. Mr. Malfoy, if you will escort her.”

“Of course.”

Weasley was smirking behind MacGonagal’s back. Draco waited until she’d turned around and then made a rude gesture.

“Not so high and mighty now that your dad can’t buy your way out of trouble, aye, _mate_?”

“What, exactly,” Draco said, “is the point of having an advantage if you don’t use it? Would you expect Granger here to act like an idiot, because you look like a poor student in comparison? No. I had money and status, and I used them.”

“And now you don’t,” Weasley said, still smirking.

“Ron, don’t be an ass,” Granger said.

“Besides, it’s hardly like I haven’t served detention before,” Draco said. “Potter and I went into the Forbidden Forest our first year while you were in the hospital wing with a dragon bite, as I recall.”

“Yeah, well, I recall you didn’t, when you let all your Death Eater friends into the castle,” Weasley spat. “Almost killed my sister, Greyback clawed up my brother--”

“Ron!” Potter snapped. “Come on, mate, let’s… let’s just go, okay?”

“It’s not all right, Harry,” Weasley protested. “There’s nothing all right about this.”

But he let Potter draw him away, and Granger stayed just a moment longer to give them both a tentative, apologetic smile, and then she ran after her friends.

Draco took a deep breath, blew a few hairs out of his face. “You have Peekaboo, Ariana?”

“Yeah, she’s got scratches on her wing,” the girl was just about sobbing.

“Well, Hagrid will take care of her,” Draco said. “Let’s go visit him now, shall we?”

“Yeah, okay,” she said, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her robe. “He’ll take care of Peekaboo?”

“Hagrid’s the best Care of Magical Creatures professor we’ve got,” Draco said.


	7. The House of Malfoy

Part of the second great Wizarding War had done irreparable damage to things like human/centaur relations. Even before the battle of Hogwarts, the centaurs had turned against their tentative treaties.

Not, frankly, that Draco blamed them. The centaurs had been treated as second-hand citizens, or even not citizens at all. Like most of the magical world, they were denied representation, they were prohibited rights, and they were constantly losing their homes to the encroachment of wizards on their territory.

There were few places where this was more obvious than Hagrid’s hut.

A small building, but heavily fortified, lingered on the edge of the grounds, just before the Forbidden Forest.

But there had never before been a Wall that separated Hogwarts Grounds from the Forest. Even after the Dark Lord was defeated, the centaurs had made a few raids against the castle, mostly Hagrid’s hut, which had rich and magical garden earth, a well with kelpie spirits in it, and apparently had, at one point, been the site of sacred centaur ground.

In the aftermath of the war, the centaurs had tried to reclaim it.

But Hagrid was half-giant, and his brother Grawp -- a full-blooded, if short, giant -- made their homes there, and as there were several students and professors alike who would come to their defense if necessary, the centaurs had been beaten back.

The Wall, however, was guarded on both sides, now. The centaurs kept a small bow line at the edge of the forest and no one dared enter, these days, except Hagrid. And he wasn’t allowed so much as he was impossible to stop.

Draco shook his head. “Forbidden Forest,” he said. “It never really was, until now. Even with all the creatures that live there, werewolves and centaurs and unicorns, people still went there. I’ve been in there.”

“Were you scared?” Ariana asked him, cradling Peekaboo gently between her hands.

“Oh yes,” Draco admitted, because there really wasn’t any point in lying about it. “Potter and I ran into the Dark Lord while we were there. Of course, we didn’t know it was him, and the Dark Lord had possessed the body of our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. So, not at his full strength, but lethal enough.”

“Wow,” Ariana said. “And you knew him, too.”

“The Dark Lord?” Draco mused. “I don’t know that you could say anyone really knew him. My aunt liked to think of herself as his favorite, but I don’t think he had any. Favorites. Or friends, really. He was… well, his motto was nearly if you want something done right. We -- all of us -- were almost always disappointing him. He ruled by fear and impossible expectations. I daresay there’s not many of the Death Eaters left who would voluntarily bring him back, or bring back those days.”

“Could he be brought back?”

“Well, with magic, many things are possible, but I don’t think so. I think he’s really, quite solidly dead this time,” Draco said. 

Ariana nodded. “Good,” she said.

And that was that.

Draco knocked on the heavy wooden door.

“Whozat?” Hagrid bellowed, and there was a mad scrambling at the door as the wolfhound that Hagrid kept tried desperately to get there. “Aw, Malfoy, ye shouldna be out of the Castle--”

“Good evening, Hagrid,” Draco said, giving him a nod. He wasn’t going to apologize for anything he’d done in the past, that would just embarrass both of them, and probably wouldn’t do any good anyway. “My young friend, Ariana Filch, needs your help. Her pet bat has been injured and I’ve told her you’re the best Care of Magical Creatures professor that we have.”

Which was true, in that he was also the only Care of Magical Creatures professor that Hogwarts had. And, Draco had to admit, even if he was a downright terrible teacher, Hagrid was good with animals and creatures of all sorts. Moreso than he was with humans.

“Wha’ happened to the wee thing?” Hagrid asked, suddenly all business.

“Filch’s cat,” Draco said.

“My Uncle’s cat tried to murder poor Peekaboo,” Ariana sobbed, handing over the tiny creature. In Hagrid’s huge hands, she practically disappeared. Ariana shot Draco a look that told him that he’d better know what he was doing, that if Hagrid inhaled wrong or something, there would be no more bat. And then, no more henchwitch. Draco gave her a reassuring smile.

“Don’ care for cats much, m’self,” Hagrid said. “‘M allergic.”

“I don’t mind cats,” Ariana said fiercely, “but Mrs. Norris, she’s just _mean_.”

“Well, don’t you worry none, Miss Filch--” Hagrid stopped and blinked at her. “Filch’s yer uncle?”

Ariana nodded. “Great Uncle, but really, he’s not that great.”

“We all got problem relations,” Hagrid said. “Reckon you know ‘arry Potter, and look what he had for relations. Don’t reflect on you none.” Even as Hagrid was talking, he was going through the contents of one shelf. “Jus’ the thing here, dittany, for wounds an’ bleedin’.”

Hagrid mixed up a few more things; for pain, for a good day’s sleep. He did know, Draco thought, a lot about healing magic. For animals.

“‘Ere’s tha’ then,” Hagrid said, handing her a bottle with a delicate glass dropper. “Give yer pet jus’ two drops o’ that, an’ tuck her in to bed. Migh’ want ter get her food, since she won’t be able t’ fly fer a few days while she’s healin’ up some.”

“Thank you, Professor Hagrid,” Ariana said. “You’re really amazing. Draco said you were!”

“Jus’ Hagrid’s fine,” Hagrid said, cheeks blushing a little over the hedge of his beard. He peered suspiciously at Draco, but Draco just shrugged.

“I only said the truth,” Draco pronounced. “For animal injuries, you are the best.”

Hagrid was full-on blushing now. “Don’ reckon that come up much, with yer family, Malfoy.”

“We had white peacocks, once,” Draco said, thinking back on the poor things. “They’re all dead now. Come on, Ariana, let’s get you back to the castle before you join me in detention.”

Ariana spent the entire walk back to the castle telling him how the headmistress herself wouldn’t give them detention for doing what _she said to do_. 

***

"Mr. Malfoy," Professor Slughorn said, at the end of potions class. "Would you stay after class?"

Draco's expression didn't change, but his heart sank until it was nearly at his ankles. "Of course," he said, because what else could he do? He was pretty sure his grades were still as expected, and he hadn't done anything to cause trouble. Even if he was brewing a potion out of class, they had permission for that.

Maybe Slughorn wanted him for clean up -- some of the other professors had discovered that he was working odd jobs around the castle and had called on him. Magical help, they would say, so much more useful than house elves.

Instead of producing a list of instructions, or a task, Slughorn waved at his office. “If you don’t mind, dear boy,” Slughorn said. “I thought it best that, well, of course, you don’t want a fuss.”

“A fuss about what?”

Slughorn opened his office -- that had once been Professor Snape’s office, and now seemed as distant from that place as it was possible to be. Where Snape’s things had been sparse, Slughorn preferred his creature comforts. Fat, poncy little chairs, an elaborate desk, and--

“Mother?”

Narcissa looked up from where she was helping herself to some of Slughorn’s crystallized pineapple. “Draco, dearest,” she said. “I thought we might visit-- it’s your father’s birthday, of course.”

_Of course._

Draco nodded. “Yes, that… thank you, Mother, I should have thought of it myself. But you could have sent me an owl, I’d have met you--”

“You can side-along Apparate,” Narcissa said. She dusted the crystal sugar from her mouth with one gloved hand.

“I can Apparate myself,” Draco reminded her. “I do have a licence.”

“Yes, well, you’ve never--”

_Been to Azkaban_. She didn’t say it, but the words lingered in the air, screaming silently. And he hadn’t; back before the Dark Lord came into power, Narcissa wouldn’t allow it. Azkaban was a terrible place, she said, not for children, no matter the circumstances.

But Draco wasn’t a child anymore.

Despite that, he wasn’t eager to go. He hated seeing his father so cast down -- they’d spoken a few times via controlled Floo Network messages. But Draco needed more than that, now.

“All right, Mother, let’s go.”

He didn’t acknowledge Professor Slughorn beyond a nod as they left his office, but Draco was grateful. If Slughorn hadn’t let Narcissa wait in his office, she probably would have had to wait at McGonagall's office. Or in the Great Hall. Both of which would have exposed her to the notice of the other students, or professors, who might not look any more kindly on her -- Mrs. Malfoy -- than they would have on any other Death Eater.

Although, Draco thought, somewhat resentful, Narcissa’s Dark Mark was gone.

She’d broken faith with the Dark Lord during the battle, and that -- saving Potter’s life -- had severed her tie to the Lord and his Mark. 

The rest of the Death Eaters -- Draco included -- still had their Marks, although they were faded and useless. They’d never be gone; there was no Dark Lord left to betray.

Absently, Draco wondered how Snape had managed to keep his, even after his betrayal.

Maybe because Snape had never really been on anyone’s side at all, except perhaps, his own.

Draco envied Snape. Dead and gone and not having to deal with the consequences of any of his actions any longer. Potter made sure that Snape was known for being a spy -- at great risk to himself -- and a hero. He was given the Order of Merlin, posthumously.

If Snape had ever been known to want a thing, Draco thought perhaps he had it. 

While Draco was still here, left behind. At least mostly forgotten or overlooked, but still dealing with consequences of actions he couldn’t possibly have understood.

Making excuses for myself again, Draco said. He laid his hand on his mother’s arm and escorted her out of the castle. You couldn’t Apparate inside the castle -- a problem that had caused him no ends of consternation during his sixth year. 

“You’re very quiet, my darling,” Narcissa said. “What are you thinking on?”

Draco couldn’t possibly explain to his mother that he was ruminating on _regrets_. So, instead, he started to tell his mother about Arianna Filch.

Narcissa’s eyebrow went up. “Is she pretty?”

“She’s not that kind of friend, Mother,” Draco said. 

“Well, she could be. Not now, of course, but-- well, your father didn’t marry until he was in his thirties, dear. She has all the time in the world to grow up. And so do you.”

“I think I’m about as grown up as I’m going to get,” Draco mused. 

Draco waited until they walked off the grounds -- the walls had ears, or poltergeists and ghosts. “How is he?” Draco hadn’t seen Lucius for several months. Potter had gotten him a week’s worth of visitation outside Azkaban, which had been kind, but-- well, Draco tried not to think about that week.

“Better, I think,” Narcissa said. “Come along, I know he wants to see you, my dear.”

Draco wanted to remind his mother that he was old enough to Aparate, but he held his tongue. Narcissa took some small pleasure in coddling Draco, and there were few enough pleasures in her life these days.

She took his arm, and all the air was squeezed out of his lungs. A moment later, he was stepping out onto the stones at Azkaban.

He and his mother surrendered their wands, permitted themselves to be searched for any items that might be contraband. There was a brief moment of confusion until Draco produced his edict that allowed him to be under the influence of potions, and then even longer as the warden used the Floo Network to verify the authenticity. 

Meddlers, Draco thought. He certainly wasn’t going to be allowed to take his polyjuice while he was at the prison. Which left him… twenty minutes, thereabouts.

“Can we move along,” Draco wondered. “I’m only allowed to be off school grounds in the evening for so long.”

That was an exaggeration, but it did its job. No one -- not even the warden of Azkaban -- wanted Headmistress McGonagall to demand an explanation from them.

Narcissa kept close on Draco’s arm, her fingers practically digging into his bones. Of course she remembered her time -- briefly -- as a prisoner. And the dementors, who were no longer serving as the guards. Draco had a moment’s concern; where were the dementors now? He’d never been able to summon a proper Patronus; he’d never be able to defend himself now, if they came for him.

And while, as a child, he hadn’t had so many bad memories as to send him into despair at their presence, well, he couldn’t say that anymore, could he?

The warden led them to the visitation room, which was sparsely appointed; a table, a few uncomfortable chairs. A security portrait that watched them.

Lucius was brought to them in short order, and Draco couldn’t quite help it. He all but ran to his father and embraced him, feeling Lucius’s too-thin body, the shuddering wheeze of his breath. His father felt old, frail. Not the strong, proud man of Draco’s youth, or the desperate soldier in the war, but ancient. Barely alive at all. Those clever eyes were soft, weak. Afraid.

“Draco, Narcissa,” Lucius said. “It’s good to see you, to see you both.” 

Lucius held Draco’s hand a moment longer, the small wrapped packet slipping between them. Draco absently tucked it into his pocket, along with his papers and identification. Precious beyond words, at least for the next year, or maybe two.

Lucius’s hair.


	8. The Fallen Fifty

When Draco reported to his detention -- clean the Monument, and take care of the grounds surrounding it -- he wasn’t terribly upset. He didn’t know much about the Monument, aside from the fact that it existed on the grounds, somewhat to the west of the Quidditch pitch, and therefore, pretty far away from the castle. He was looking forward to a little peace and quiet, really. 

He didn’t know much about muggle cleaning, either, but how hard could it be? Filch was smirking like anything when he gave Draco a little wheeled cart full of supplies, none of which Draco had ever seen before, but what did it matter? He’d get the cart out there, and either figure it out, or he wouldn’t, and he’d cheat, and who would know.

Getting the cart out in the first place was harder than it looked; there was only one wheel and two handles, and the load inside was awkwardly placed, so Draco ended up listing from side to side, without getting a lot of forward mobility. A muttered Wingardium Leviosa, and he put the cart an unnoticeable inch or so about the ground, and pushing became much easier. There was a reason why they were witches and wizards and not Muggles, after all.

As he arrived around the backside of the Monument, he heard heavy breathing and some cursing, and then, rounding the side, saw someone he had not expected at all.

Potter.

He had his own cart full of supplies -- seedlings and a few bags of dragon dung, by the smell of it, and a little spade. He was on one hand and knees, digging in the dirt.

Draco stopped short, not making a sound. He wondered if this was a joke, or if there was any way he could get out of his detention without getting in more trouble. It wasn’t like anyone really cared who was going to win the House Cup this year, certainly Scamander house wouldn’t. 

Well, someone probably cared. 

But not Draco.

Before he could decide whether or not to try to sneak away, Potter leaned back on his heels, wiped his forehead with one arm, and happened to see Draco. He froze, then offered Draco a tight, small smile. “Well, come on then,” Potter said. “I’ve been here since just after Potions, where’ve you been?”

“Transfiguration,” Draco said, letting the cart drop to the ground. “What’s this, then?”

“Detention,” Potter said, like that wasn’t obvious.

“I know, detention, Potter,” Draco said. “I meant, why are you here?”

“Oh, I was cheeky to Professor Sprout,” Potter said. 

“I thought you were the professor’s darling boy,” Draco said. “Incapable of getting detention after saving the wizarding world.”

“You know, I really didn’t,” Potter said. “Save anything. Voldemort destroyed himself. It would have happened, eventually, if I were around or not. He was too afraid to make an effective peace-time leader, so he would have constantly been waging war.”

“Modesty, from you?”

Potter shrugged. “War’s over,” he said. “I’d just as soon forget about it.”

Draco almost didn’t say anything, but they were, in fact, right there in front of the Memorial. “The lot in charge don’t make it simple, with ruddy awful statues like this.”

“You’ve got that right,” Potter said. “They used to have one at the Ministry, horrible thing, until Voldemort and Dumbledore blew it up, the magical community thing, with the servile house elf, and the centaur, I’m sure you saw it, your father was always ‘round the Ministry.”

That sounded almost like Potter was ribbing him, just a little.

“The Fountain of Magical Brethren? It was better than the Magic is Might that--”

“I saw it,” Potter said, briefly. “When Ron and Hermione and I launched a raid at the Ministry. Better’s a low bar to get over.”

“Bet they have some true monstrosity there, now,” Draco said, trying to keep it lighthearted. “Some big-headed Chosen One.”

“So, Neville, killing Nagini? I wouldn’t mind a statue of that,” Potter remarked, mildly. “It could just as easily have been him, as me. Something Dumbledore taught me; evil makes its own saviors. I might have been the Chosen One, but that’s because Voldemort chose me. It’s not something I’m proud of, but in the end, I could no more have sat back and let Voldemort get away with it than I could will myself to stop breathing. He had to be stopped, and I could help stop him.”

“Right,” Draco drawled. “Well, what all are we supposed to do, out here, anyway?”

“Professor Sprout has me putting down all these magical plants, and you’re supposed to sweep the walk, and clean off the monument. You might want to wait to sweep until I’m done with the planting, so we’re not getting in each other’s way.”

“That’ll be a first,” Draco said, but he grabbed a bucket, and a scrubbing brush. He filled the bucket with water from the tip of his wand. For a while, they worked in not-quite-companionable silence. Draco was not really paying attention to the Monument itself, just washing down the stones without looking at the faces, or the names.

Dumbledore, of course, was the most prominent feature, having been considered the great general of the wizarding army. His round spectacles and crooked nose were all but legendary, even when he was still alive. There was a night that Draco remembered entirely too well.

He wished… oh, if he could go back in time, he would wish to undo that night. Even if he’d found out later, much later, that Dumbledore was dying anyway, that Snape had already agreed to put his old friend and mentor out of his misery, that there was so much more going on there than Draco knew about at the time.

_I can protect you, and your family_ , Dumbledore had promised, and Draco -- who’d nearly killed Katie Bell and Ron Weasley before finally confronting Dumbledore in the tower when he was weak and injured -- practically out of his mind with fear, had hesitated. He’d wanted to believe that Dumbledore could do _anything_. But he was afraid of Voldemort, afraid that Voldemort would win and what would happen if Draco betrayed him.

Draco wondered if it was a jab at him; having to clean this Monument to a man he’d almost murdered. “Did you tell anyone?” Draco wondered, suddenly.

“About?” Potter sat back on his heels again, squinting up. There was something about Potter on his knees that made Draco’s stomach feel… very odd. Warm and squirmy somehow, like he was going to throw up, but in a nice way.

“About me,” Draco confessed. “About me, and Dumbledore and what Snape did.”

“You defeated Dumbledore,” Potter said. “Which is how I was able to get hold of the Elder Wand, because I defeated you. But you weren’t going to kill him. You-- you were scared, Malfoy. But you weren’t going to do it. You’re not a murderer. As far as I know, you haven’t killed anyone. Not even during the war.”

“No, no, I didn’t,” Draco said, and that felt even more like shame, in a way it probably shouldn’t have. But he never did. He’d led some people to their deaths, knowing what would happen if Greyback was let loose in the castle, but… was it cowardice?

“Neither have I,” Potter said. “It wasn’t on purpose. I would have killed Bellatrix LeStrange, if I could have, for what she did to Sirius.”

_But not,_ Draco noted _, for what she did to you. Or Granger._

Well, what did anyone expect from a wizard whose signature spell was a disarm?

“At least that’s something to be grateful for,” Potter said, after a long pause. “That’s how-- Voldemort, he made those horcruxes, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” Draco said. “Not really. And I’m not sure I want to know. You shouldn’t excuse it.”

“Come again?”

“Me, the things I did,” Draco said. “We knew -- I knew -- what I was doing. Who I was siding with. It wasn’t until things started going pear-shaped, and the Dark Lord was, you know, killing our side of things, that anyone really questioned it at all.”

“ _Woman who voted for Lions-eating-faces party sobs, ‘I never expected lions to eat_ my _face_ ,’” Potter said.

“What’s that?” 

“Muggle thing,” Potter said. 

Draco blinked. Were Muggles really that dumb, to-- oh.

“I mean, basically the point is, when--”

“No, I get the point,” Draco said, fuming inwardly. Potter was calling him stupid, and maybe the reason why it hurt so much is that Draco knew he’d been stupid, he knew they’d all been stupid. The problem with the Death Eaters had been -- it seemed pretty and shiny and safe on the inside, when you were looking at it from the outside. But once you were in, you couldn’t get out. Not without dying. Or losing someone you cared about. Everyone who defied the Dark Lord came to a sticky end.

Well, almost everyone.

Everyone that Draco knew, or cared about. His mother, depressed and lost, his father imprisoned. Even Crabbe, who’d died in the last battle, because of his own stupidity and not anything else. “Did Goyle ever thank you?” Draco wondered. “For saving his life?”

“Doesn’t really matter, mate,” Potter said, which made Draco believe that Goyle had not. “I didn’t do it for him.”

“How can you save someone’s life for yourself?” Draco demanded.

Potter shot Draco an uninterpretable look from under his sweaty hair. “I did it for you.”

“That makes even less sense,” Draco complained.

Potter shrugged one shoulder. “You were going to die, trying to save him.”

“Potter,” Draco said, as if explaining things to a small and not particularly bright child, “I tried to kill you. On more than one occasion.”

“And I almost returned the favor,” Potter pointed out. “Snape’s Sectumsempra spell, remember?”

Draco’s hands spasmed and he reached for the scar on his chest, the one that went all the way to his chin.

“I didn’t mean that, you know,” Potter said, as if this was something Draco should know. “I never would have-- I didn’t know what it did.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond to that; he’d been preparing to Cruciato Potter and while he still could feel the ache sometimes in those old wounds, it was a fair retaliation. “I saw,” Draco said. “It hurt, but… I saw how you looked. I know.” He was still rubbing at the scar, fingers digging in, knowing it would inflame the scar, turn it red and raw, but he couldn’t help it.

“Here, no, stop,” Potter said. He reached into his bag. “Use this.”

“What is it?”

“Something Hermione whipped up, with dittany and a few other things. We used it a lot… well, during. I keep it on hand, just in case.”

“In case of what? Who’s going to attack you now?”

“Well, that’s always been the question,” Potter said. “Go on, use it, then.”

There was no reason to trust Potter, but Draco did anyway. And there was never anything to fear from Granger's spellwork. Annoying as she could be, she knew her magic. Draco sniffed at it, familiar enough. Decided to try it, running the salve into the scar. It went numb and painless almost immediately.

"Might lessen the scars, too, in time," Potter said with an indifferent shrug. "If that's the sort of thing that matters. I mean, we all have scars." His hand went up as if to shield the lightning scar from sight. 

Not that he ever could; the scar that made him the Boy who Lived. 

"Won't work on yours," Draco said with some sympathy. "Curse scars. It won't fix these either."

Potter winced.

"No," Draco said. "It's not-- thanks for the potion. It helps "

"You keep it," Potter said. Draco looked at the little bottle of salve and then tucked it into his robes.

"You done planting there? I still need to sweep," Draco pointed out.

"Yeah, go ahead," Potter said. He rocked back on his heels to watch and Draco couldn't help but duck his head to hide a smile. He wasn't sure what had happened, but something sure had and it was more magic than any he'd ever performed.


	9. Feathers and Brooms

It wasn’t the first quidditch match of the season, that had been Slytherin against Ravenclaw. Slytherin had won, barely. That was nice, and the close nature of the game had kept things from being too tense in House Scamander as everyone sided with their old teammates.

Scamander against Hufflepuff was the second game of the season, but the first one that Draco would be in the air instead of in the seats.

He pulled on his gear, in the new house colors; purple and gold. The gold trim, Draco thought, didn’t go well with his hair, and he scowled at the locker room mirror. He looked sallow, sickly. It had been a while since he’d played a game; practice didn’t count. They’d done strangely well at practice, though.

Beaters were good, chasers were still hammering out the rough edges, and Weasley wasn’t a bad Keeper, as long as he didn’t get nervous.

Potter, of course, was the best Seeker in a century. So said everyone, and very privately, Draco agreed. He had a knack for spotting the snitch, he was daring, brave, unafraid of getting injured. He was a risk-taker.

Speaking of which, he was standing in the door to the locker room, looking out on the field. The stands were filling up, slowly.

“Something on your mind, Potter?”

“Thinking about the last time I played,” he said. “Ginny and I started seeing each other, after. We broke up a few times. But I think this time is for good. I don’t think we’ll have a wild reconciliation after the game, no matter who wins.”

“Does that make you sad?” There was a strange frisson in Draco’s belly, like anger, or despair. Jealous, he guessed, but jealous of what, he wasn’t quite sure. Draco’d had a girlfriend for a few years, Pansy Parkinson, but really, there hadn’t been any spark. They’d liked each other because of family and connections, and now. Well. Draco didn’t miss her.

“Wistful,” Potter said. “I mean, things turned out all right. Ron’s not mad. I think Ginny and I will be able to be friends. It might be a little awkward, but I’m used to that. I just… wanted to be part of the wizarding world. Wanted a family, here.”

“You’re the most famous person in the world, Potter,” Draco said, and it didn’t come out as a sneer. “Everyone knows who you are.”

“Everyone knows my name,” Potter said. “It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Change your name, move to Italy?” Draco suggested. “Or America, I suppose. Macusa is a little rough around the edges, but I don’t think your average American wizard gives a bloody damn who you are.”

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it, sometimes,” Potter said. “Trying to start over, somewhere quiet, where I could be left alone.”

“Why don’t you?”

Potter turned around then, let Draco see his face. “I thought you might miss me,” he said. 

Before Draco could think of anything scathing to say, or any way to defer or deny what Potter had said, Blaize stuck his head around the corner. “Come on, Captain, it’s time to play.”

Draco grabbed his broom off the rack, shouldered it, and headed out onto the field. He’d think of something to say after the game.

Or they’d win, and everyone would be excited enough that Draco wouldn’t have to.

***

The air was crisp, the breeze smelled like apples, and there was a thin layer of clouds in the sky. Not too bright. Good snitch-spotting weather, so long as the rain held off.

It probably wouldn’t.

The stands were crammed on one side, most of the four houses were mashed onto the Hufflepuff’s side.

On the other side, well, there were the remaining Scamanders, including Granger, who had a big poster that she’d enchanted to hang over her head without her actually having to do anything like hold it, which was good, since she had a huge book in her lap and was paging through it. The eighth years were scattered around her in a little circle, looking rather pecky and pathetic.

The roar when the announcer started calling the Hufflepuff team names was immense.

“I can’t imagine when Hufflepuff was so popular in the entire history of the school,” Weasley said. 

“Uh, when Cedric Diggory was our Seeker,” Finch-Flechley snapped, brandishing his broom in Weasley’s direction.

“We’re all Scamanders now,” Draco said, because as Captain, he felt like one of the Chasers getting into a fight with the Keeper right before the game started was going to be bad sportsmanship. “Come on, we worked hard to get here, let’s get this done.”

And they had worked hard. Persuading the headmistress to allow the formation of another team, practice, learning to work together. Of course, hard work never mattered all that much at Hogwarts, Draco thought, bitterly. There was always some flash arsehole who came in, took credit. The school was made up of Lockharts and Slughorns. Draco’s actual work had never been important.

He felt that all the way down to his bones when the announcer introduced the Scamander team and while it was not silent, the cheers of the very few Scamanders in the stands, was weak. Pathetic, compared.

Potter kicked off his broom, skimmed the grass. On his way by Draco, he paused for a moment, squeezed Draco’s shoulder.

Draco told himself he didn’t feel warmer, or comforted.

He mounted his broom and joined his team for a lap before landing mid-pitch to shake hands with the ‘Puff captain.

Madam Hooch went through her usual lecture about following the rules, and nice clean game.

The Hufflepuff captain did his best to break Draco’s fingers in the shake. “Good name for you-- Scamander. Bunch of disorganized animals.”

Draco didn’t answer.

The whistle blew and the game was on.

“Do your job, Potter,” Draco muttered, knowing how strange it was that he was actually hoping that Potter would find the Snitch. He took possession of the Quaffle and headed toward the hoops, Blaize coming up to guard his flank.

“Captain, my captain,” Blaize sing-songed, doing some fancy sloth-rolls to distract.

“Score! Scamander 10, Hufflepuff zero!”

The Scamanders worked together like a well-oiled machine. Beaters guarded the Chasers, Weasley managing his goals, Potter off doing who bloody knew, but--

“Score! Scamander 60, Hufflepuff, 10.”

The Snitch wasn’t making an appearance. Potter didn’t have much work to do, just let the other Seeker shadow him, sometimes executing daring and fancy moves away from the Chasers to distract.

Scamanders widened their lead. 

“Score! Scamander 140, Hufflepuff, 40!”

The game went on, and on.

“What are you doing out there, Potter?” Boot demanded, when the Hufflepuff captain called for a time out. “We’ve been in the air for three hours.”

“Enjoying the game,” Potter said, breezily. “It’s a good day for flying.”

“Yeah, well, get to Seeking, that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”

“Boot,” Draco snapped. “We’ve got this. Snitch or no snitch, we’re almost one-fifty ahead and then it won’t matter.”

Madam Hooch blew the whistle and as they headed back into the air, Potter winked at Draco.

_Winked?_

Why would he wink?

Draco kicked off the ground, back into the air, did a swoop-and-dive around the Hufflepuff chasers and stole the Quaffle, dropping almost to the ground before he about-faced and took the ball the other way.

No one was cheering. The crowds didn’t erupt in joyous shrieking.

But when Draco put the ball in the goal, heard the announcer cry out “Scamander 210 to Hufflepuff, 60!” And mere seconds later, “And Harry Potter’s got the Snitch.” he knew what that wink had meant.

And it meant more to him than any cheers ever could.

* * *

“Do you have a problem?” Draco heard Potter as he came out of the showers, a towel on his head, another one around his waist. He rummaged through his shower things and grabbed the flask of potion, tipping back a swallow. It would never do to run out in the locker rooms.

“We were on our brooms for at least forty minutes longer than we needed to be,” Boot snapped and there was the sound of a scuffle, like Boot had pushed, and Potter had scurried backward. “As your teammates, we have the right to know why you were playing like a git.”

“Maybe I wanted to see if you were actually capable of playing,” Potter said, and there was more scuffling. “Ron, _no_. We’re all on the same team here.”

“But--”

“Catching the Snitch is showboating,” Potter said. “It’s showing off the skills of one person. You did good, Terry. Everyone did. And now, everyone knows it.”

Boot stomped off, and there was a long silence.

“Why did you do that, mate?”

“Because I’m tired of being the Chosen one,” Potter said. “This is a Quidditch match. But if I’d caught the snitch in five minutes, everyone would believe I’m carrying the team. I wanted to show everyone the truth; that without my team, without all the people who’ve been willing to carry me, we wouldn’t have anything. We wouldn’t have won _anything_. And now, they know.”

“Why are you such a bloody noble idiot?”

“I have a _saving-people_ thing, Ron, remember?”

Weasley scoffed. “Whatever. Get up to dinner before I eat all the treacle tart.”

“You don’t even like treacle tart.”

“Yeah, but you do.”

Weasley smacked Potter’s arm, and then his footsteps, too faded out.

“It’s been a long time since I caught you spying, Malfoy,” Potter said, sounding amiable.

“No, it’s usually you, doing the spying,” Draco said. He leaned in the entry to the locker room and tried to ignore the way a flush crawled up Potter’s face when he glanced over, and then, hurriedly, stared at the wall.

Well, _that_ was an interesting reaction

“So, are you planning to gloat?”

“Not really,” Draco said. “What would I gloat about? The team did well, but, as you say, we’re all on the same team. I’m more concerned, really, that Ariana’s going get her nose out of joint. You might have made us all look good, Potter, but you did it at the expense of the Hufflepuff team.”

“Can’t please everyone,” Potter muttered, but he flushed harder.

“Apparently not.”

“Except you,” Potter said, and he looked up, despite his red cheeks. He met Draco’s gaze calmly. Clear green eyes that seemed to pierce right into Draco’s chest. “You were pleased.”

“So?” Which wasn’t the same as denying it.

“So, nothing,” Potter said. “I meant what I said. We’re all on the same team. I wanted you -- and everyone else -- to know that. It’s the truth.”

“All right, then,” Draco said. “Good game.”

Potter chuckled, flipped Draco a quick salute, and left the locker room. Draco watched him go, and then pulled on his clothes and headed up to the castle.

Ariana, as it turned out, was not mad at all. “Look, the ‘puffs, they’re all. I don’t know, fake,” she complained, shoving a piece of jam smeared toast in her mouth.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, we get sorted in these houses,” Ariana said, dabbing dripping butter off her fingers and onto the tablecloth, “and everyone expects you to act a certain way. Evil, smart, brave. _Nice._ Do you know what nice is, Draco? _Nice_ is someone expressing concern that you might be eating too much in this sickeningly sweet voice. _Nice_ is observing that you don’t seem to get along well with your relatives, Ariana, _I mean, you haven’t gotten any letters from home, dear, we’re just worried about you_.”

Draco didn’t bother to say anything to that; what could he say? They were just words? She knew that, the same way Draco did, that words cut deeper, hurt longer, and healed uglier than any scars. Draco’d used words as weapons, left people bleeding in his wake. Those Hufflepuff bullies, that was just him, a few years ago.

“They’re just jealous,” Ariana said.

“About?”

“That I don’t need them to tell me who I am,” she answered. “I know who I am. I know my value.”

Draco patted her hand, ignoring that it was sticky and dirty. “I know who you are. You’re my henchwitch.”


	10. The Amazing Bouncing Ferret Redux

Professor McGonagall looked at them all with a stern frown. “All of you wish to learn to become animagi?” she demanded, tapping her foot. “And what, I’m supposed to--?”

“Please, Professor,” Potter said. “It’s a point of honor. All of my favorite people have been animagus.”

“Potter,” Professor McGonagall scoffed. “Honor indeed.” But she looked rather pleased.

“Of course, at least two of our least favorite people have also been animagus,” Granger said under her breath, and if Professor McGonagall heard her, she was at least pretending that she didn’t.

“And you, Mr. Malfoy?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“I have my own reasons for wanting a change of shape as an option,” Draco said. Let the others make of that what they would. He could hide out as a badger or snake or whatever it was whenever being human was too much to stand. And, Professor McGonagall would know -- she would know what his eventual intent was. And he trusted her not to say anything.

“You should know, however, Miss Filch,” she continued, “that this is no ordinary spell, and much too difficult for a first year.”

“Well,” Ariana said, giving Professor McGonagall her extra-cheeky smile, “I’ll probably bollocks it all up before we get to anything important, and then I can sit it out and try again later.”

Professor McGonagall glared. “One point from Hufflepuff for your use of language.”

“I’m going to take that as a yes, by all means, go ahead,” Ariana said.

Potter blinked at her. “Why are you in _Hufflepuff_ , again?” 

Ariana shrugged. “The Hat didn’t know what to do with me,” she said. “No one does.”

“Very well, Miss Filch, if the older students don’t object to you sharing lessons with them, I will teach you, but I would not expect any good results.”

“That’s nothing new,” Ariana said.

And all of that, whether she meant it to or not, adequately distracted Professor McGonagall from asking any more questions that Draco didn’t really want to answer anyway.

“We don’t mind at all,” Granger said, putting her arm around the little girl. “She reminds me of me.”

Potter laughed. “Yeah, I expect if you’d fallen in with some sixth year Ravenclaws or something, we’d have never needed to save you from a troll in the dungeon.”

“If Ron hadn’t been such an unbelievable git during Charms class, I wouldn’t have needed saving,” Granger snapped back, but she was smiling. Some injoke, and Draco puffed out a breath. He didn’t really have friends and injokes anymore.

And he wasn’t privy to the Potter’s gang, either, so there was no point in worrying about that.

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall said. “It’s probably better that you work under some supervision, at least. And I can trust you’ll all register properly.”

“Of course, Professor,” Potter said. 

“There’s an empty classroom just next to Hufflepuff’s common room,” Professor McGonagall said. “You may set up potion stations there, for long term use. If that will be all, then?”

It was probably just a coincidence, since they were talking with McGonagall after Transfiguration class -- Ariana had arrived breathless and excitable from her Charms lessons -- and then it was time for lunch.

Which meant, somehow that they all ended up sitting together at the Scamander table. When Boot raised an eyebrow at Ariana’s tiny figure, Draco just scowled until the former Ravenclaw found something else to glare about.

But Ariana went about ingratiating herself with all of them, talking about the Quidditch game, and comparing it to an historic match back in 1819, when lack of players had caused several half-formed teams to combine so that they could play. “Nothing’s more important than playing,” she said, raising her glass of pumpkin juice, “no matter who your teammates are.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Potter said, and he tipped his glass in Draco’s direction. “Right, mate?”

“Always so dramatic, Potter,” Draco sighed, but he raised his glass anyway.

* * *

Truly, holding a mandrake leaf in his mouth was _revolting_. The first two days, there was an excessive amount of saliva which Draco was constantly swallowing. Which, in turn, made him feel queasy and sick. It was hard to tell what was worse, really. The constant tipping of the world under his feet, or the fact that talking with a mandrake leaf stuffed between his gum and cheek made him talk with a lisp.

The only reason that was tolerable at all was that Potter (and Granger and Ariana for that matter) were all talking with a lisp.

Potter had come up with an interesting muggle invention called a _straw_ that they all ended up using for their drinks and soup -- which made up most of their meals because chewing with the mandrake leaf in their mouth was ridiculously difficult.

All of them had to start over at least once; Draco had accidentally swallowed his during the night about a week in. He didn’t ask what happened to Potter’s, although he expected that Potter spit it out during the Quidditch match against Ravenclaw, where they barely won, when Potter did a Wronsky’s Feint and plowed Ravenclaw’s Seeker just in time to catch the snitch. Well, Granger never lost hers, which had Weasley complaining because she wouldn’t kiss him the whole time. “What if I accidentally turn into your animal, Ron?”

“There really has to be a better way to distill the essence of a human’s anima than this,” Draco said. Maybe it would be in Snape’s journals, but he wasn’t going to pick them up until at least Christmas, so it wouldn’t do them much good, even if it was.

Draco wished he hadn’t said anything at all, because Granger asked about it, and they ended up having a long, drawn out discussion about potion making theory, which, while fascinating, Weasley sat the whole time, laughing at them for the way they talked.

It was, in fact, nearly Halloween before everyone was ready to spit out their Mandrake leaf and start the potion brewing. Draco had located a good spot for gathering the dew with a silver spoon -- Weasley put one of those portable swamps around it, so no one would be stepping there for at least a week, which was actually quite handy -- and all the rest of the ingredients were ready.

“After the potion is ready,” Professor McGonagall told them, “you will have to cast the Animagus Incantation every single day until the next thunderstorm. Given that you’ve waited so long in the year, it’s possible that you may have to wait until the spring in order to finish the potion. Repeat after me, and this must be cast at sunset and sunrise, every day. _Amato Animo Animato Animagus._ ”

“ _My love brings me life, I am obliged to become an animal wizard_ ,” Ariana said, screwing up her face. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Dunno why all th’ old wizard blokes used Latin for their spellwork. Can you imagine, being an old Roman an’ accidentally setting the kitchen on fire or something, just ‘cause you’re talking?” Weasley added.

Each of the potential animagus stood in front of their cauldron. With a sigh of relief, Draco took the leaf out of his mouth. He pulled the breath back in, hoping--

The potion swirled, bubbled, frothed, and then turned a lovely shade of green. Perfect. Just like it was supposed to. Draco stirred, counterclockwise, then rapped his spoon sharply on the side of the cauldon. Sparks flew up.

He plucked a single hair from his head and added it.

White.

The potion turned white.

He turned to look over at Professor McGonagall.

“Quite right, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall said, the crisp tone of her voice reassuring. “Every person’s potion is different, as every person is different. Mine, I recall, was a rather startling calico swirl.”

“Mine’s brown,” Potter said, holding up the flask. It was a sort of tawny, soft color, like leather, that made Draco want to touch it.

“Mine’s brown, too,” Granger said, although hers was a darker, almost glossy shade. 

“Ug,” Ariana said. “Mine’s black.” She was staring at the vial. “I’m gonna have to drink that?”

“It will change colors again, Miss Filch, when exposed to the first few moments of the lightning storm. And you must cast your final incantation within half-hour of the storm moving directly overhead,” Professor McGonagall said. “So keep your flask with you, everywhere you go.”

“And we just drink it, after the storm?”

“That is correct, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said. “You may wish to contact a friend, just in case something goes awry.”

“I’ll have Mum keep an eye on the weather,” Weasley said. “We can take a portkey home. There’s still storms all the way through the end of October, sometimes.”

“That’s a splendid suggestion, Mr. Weasley.” Professor McGonagall beamed at him. “Molly is quite well trained to deal with magical mishaps, and I would feel better if a competent adult was around, just in case.”

“What are we, chopped liver?” Weasley asked.

Draco didn’t look at them. Surely that was not an invitation extended to him, or to Ariana, either.

“I’ve never taken a portkey before,” Ariana said.

“It’s not my least favorite way to travel,” Potter admitted. “That’d be floo powder. We’ll let you know, soon’s we hear something.”

“Thank you, Potter,” Draco said, slowly. Well, maybe it was an invitation for them as well.

* * *

One of the things that Draco had always noticed was that time always went faster when you were dreading a thing. And he was, in fact, dreading the animagus transformation attempt. There were so many things that could go wrong. He could get stuck in whatever form he went down to; or worse, the polyjuice potion and the animagus potion could counterindicate. He’d not read anything about that, in any of the books he sifted through, but really, how often did it happen that someone spent their entire life pretending to be someone else?

In the end, he went to McGonagall with his concern.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, “I believe it would be best if you brewed up and consumed a neutralizing potion before taking the animagus potion, just to be certain. You will, then, assume your born-shape before attempting the animal transfiguration. I needn’t remind you what perils mixing two previously unmixed potions can have.”

Draco nodded, which meant, perhaps, bowing out of the proposed trip to Ottery St. Catchpole.

When he brought up his concerns with Ariana -- she knew his secret after all, and she’d proven herself to be quite discreet -- she scoffed at him. “So make up an excuse,” she said. “This will be the first time we’ve transformed, and been an animal. What if one of us is a mouse and another a cat? Someone might be dead before we got ourselves sorted out. We can change privately, the first time. Or in pairs.” She eyed him. “I’d rather you were there, in case I need to be taken to St. Mungo’s or something.”

“Do your parents know you’re doing this?”

“Are you in possession of a brain?” Ariana demanded. “It’s doubtful they even pay attention, at least until I get my marks. I’m pretty low on their priority list, unless I’m in trouble.”

It seemed imperative to Draco to hug the girl, and then to pretend he didn’t notice just how tight she was squeezing him. She wouldn’t have wanted him to point it out.

And all of this seemed to take place in the span of only a few days, because it was less than a fortnight before Potter was yanking back his bed curtains to exclaim over the weasel patronus. “Come now,” it said in a voice that Draco recognized as Arthur Weasley. Somehow, he was not shocked that it was a weasel. But Draco didn’t say anything about it, he just grabbed the potion satchel and pulled on his robes, drawing his hood up. 

It was possible -- indeed likely -- that the polyjuice would wear off and if he had his hood up, maybe they wouldn’t notice.

Much.

Weasley yelled up the stairs to the Scamander girl’s dorm, which Draco headed off to fetch Ariana from Hufflepuff’s common room.

They were all shivering in the headmistress’s office not ten minutes later.

“Oh, I hate this,” Potter said, and he touched the portkey.

A moment later, Draco felt the snag of a crochet hook just behind his navel, and he, too, was ported away.

Draco found himself staring at the Burrow. He’d only seen it in pictures, usually unflatteringly in articles from the Daily Prophet. The enchanted pictures he’d seen, usually with Mrs. Weasley on the front lawn in her overcoat, hadn’t made the place seem… homey.

It wasn’t stately and impressive like Malfoy Manor had been; it wasn’t cold or sterile, and it certainly wasn’t quietly dignified the way Mother’s rented flat was. 

It was. Warm and welcoming -- well, not to him, but surely it would have welcomed _someone_. Probably everyone who was there with him.

But not him.

And would he be a traitor to his blood, his family, if it was? Mrs. Weasley had killed his Aunt Bellatrix, his mother’s sister.

Draco didn’t have time to worry about it. The thunderstorm was rolling in fast. 

“Come on, Ariana,” Draco said, gesturing toward the broomshed.

“What are you doing?” Potter demanded.

“If you turn into a rabbit, and I’m a wolf,” Draco said, “I’m not going to take responsibility for eating you in a fit of transformation madness.”

“Does that even happen?” Granger asked. “I don’t think I ever read about that.”

“I don’t know,” Potter said. “There aren’t that many registered animagus to ask.”

“We don’t have time to discuss it, either,” Draco said, and he pulled Ariana aside, behind the shed. Draco grabbed the other potion, the nullifier, and drank it, hoping he had enough time. Ug, he hated being in the body he was born with, all extra wiggly bits and awkward curves and elbows that bent all wrong. He kept his hood up. Even if Ariana knew, he didn’t necessarily want her to _see_.

Ariana already had her wand and her potion bottle out, murmuring the spell words and waving her wand. She was very graceful, Draco noted. 

He pulled out his own wand.

“ _Amato Animo Animato Animagus._ ”

Draco drank the potion.

He’d been drinking polyjuice for most of his life, and he’d gotten used to the weird, squirmy feeling it gave him whenever he had to actually change shapes -- a maintained polyjuice spell didn’t do anything except taste bad.

This was entirely different.

It was soft and easy, like a hug. Like someone wrapped him in a blanket and gave him a squeeze. Nothing hurt, nothing was weird or burning or tingling. Magic usually wasn’t graceful or easy, this seemed like it should be wrong somehow.

He found himself with his nose very low to the ground and extremely sharp eyes. He wanted to pounce on something. He leaned back as if to try to inspect himself. White fur, little nimble paws, a long fluffy tail--

He was a ferret.

_Again._

Alistar Moody -- who turned out not to be Moody at all but Barty Crouch Jr. -- had turned him into a ferret one time. Transfiguration from an outside party was a lot different than the animagus spell; that had both hurt and been extreme disorienting. 

Also, at the time, extremely humiliating.

He was a ferret.

He wondered if that was because he had ferrety tendencies, or-- well, it wasn’t like you could pick your Animagus form, or your Patronus (Draco had never even conjured one of those). They just… were.

And apparently, Draco was a ferret.

He looked around.

Ariana -- at least he assumed it was Arianna -- had been so still and silent that he’d actually failed to see her. Probably because she was so _large_. As a tiny little ferret, less than half a meter, Draco had to strain to look up at her. He certainly couldn’t see all of her at once.

Ariana made a noise, a few quick panting gasps, and then she _roared_ , loud and startling. Draco’s little ferret-self wanted to run for cover.

“ _Blimey_ ,” Weasley said, coming around the corner. “You’re a _bear--_ big, big bear.”

Ariana moved from her sitting position to all fours with a thud that shook the ground. Even down like that, she was looking him straight in the face.

Ariana snorted, like that was something she hadn’t noticed, then lowered her muzzle to the ground. As a bear, her eyeballs were almost the size of Draco’s entire face.

“And you’re a ferret,” Weasley laughed. “Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret.”

Draco stamped his front feet at Weasley, chittering angrily. He was a perfectly acceptable ferret, thank you very much.

Ariana nudged Weasley out of the way -- gently, Draco assumed, because he didn’t go flying -- and offered Draco an enormous, clawed paw. It took him a moment to realize what she wanted and then Draco was climbing up the bear and settled in between Ariana’s ears like a fluffy hat.

She walked them out into the yard -- there was a graceful stag bounding around with a head full of antlers. Proud, magnificent. And gamboling around the stag’s hooves was a fluffy otter, not much bigger than Draco’s ferret.

Draco stood up on Ariana’s head to get a better look; the ferret was at least long and skinny and capable of rearing up to look around. 

“All right, all right,” Mrs. Weasley said, coming outside. “Isn’t this a menagerie out here, Ron, thank goodness you’re more sensible. What I don’t need with great animals tearing up the grass. Go on, all of you, change back, and then come in for tea and some nice hot bangers and mash.”

As Potter and Granger melted back into their human forms, Draco ducked back behind the broom shed.

Willing himself back into his human form, he fumbled under his cloak for the polyjuice potion. He was just taking a sip, when Potter came around the corner.

“Mrs. Weasley wants you to know you’re welcome--” Potter stopped dead, staring.

Draco raised his chin, staring back, not even blinking, as he felt the polyjuice claim him, change him. A younger version of his father, so much like Lucius. Perfect and male and _right_.

“Well, Potter?” Draco demanded, because he didn’t know what else to say, or how to act. Potter _knew_. No one was supposed to know, especially not someone like perfect, chosen one, hero of the war, Harry Potter.

Potter licked his lips nervously, then, “Mrs. Weasley wants you to know you’re welcome to come in for tea, if you want. The war’s over.”


	11. In Which an Explanation is Not in Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've finally finished writing this. Oh my goodness, took me forever. Thanks for your patience, and I'll be posting chapters more frequently until it's all posted!

Draco had less than half a minute to consider what might be the most difficult decision of his life, up until that point.

Go to dinner and be there, in case Potter said something, so at least he’d know what he was fighting, or storm off in a huff and hope that he could defuse the potential situation later. 

Or, perhaps, a third option. A memory charm might be just the thing-- he reached for his wand.

“Draco,” Potter said, and it was the first time Draco had ever heard his name, his chosen name, come out of Potter’s mouth. “Come on in. It’s just dinner.” And Potter was smiling. Not the usual smirk that Potter often had, previous years, when talking to (or at) Draco, but a soft, tentative sort of smile.

Draco rather liked it, although he couldn’t have put into words why.

“Dinner, right, yeah,” he said, slowly, letting go of his wand. Maybe a memory charm wouldn’t be necessary.

Also, not particularly easy. Potter had a reputation as a duelist. He’d defeated the Dark Lord with Draco’s own wand.

What-- he wondered suddenly.

“Pott-- Harry,” Draco said. “What did you do with the wand.”

“The Elder Wand?--”

“No, I mean, mine,” Draco said. “Hawthorn, unicorn hair, ten inches, relatively springy. The one you defeated the Dark Lord with.”

“I think it’s safe to say that I did not defeat Voldemort,” Potter admitted, “but more that he brought about his own destruction. Everything he did, everyone he hurt in his quest for power, for immortality, made it just that much more inevitable that someone would take him out of the picture.”

“Your modesty is false, annoying, and doesn’t answer the question,” Draco said. “Where’s mine? For that matter, where’s the Elder Wand? You don’t use it.”

“Uh, I gave it back to Dumbledore,” Potter said. “I don’t… I don’t like it. It feels cold in my hand. Loyal and powerful, but ambitious. I don’t want it. As for yours. I uh, well, wand magic is complicated and subtle and not even wand-makers understand it. When I took your wand from you, I defeated you, and its alliance changed to me. I still have it, but I don’t know if it’ll work right for you again.”

“You didn’t just throw it out? Or break it?”

“Why would I do that?” Potter looked offended. 

“We were enemies,” Draco said, like that was obvious. Wouldn’t he have snapped Potter’s wand, if he wasn’t using it? Of course, back before the Dark Lord was defeated, Draco would have used Potter’s wand, as some sort of symbolism. The Dark Lord would have insisted. Or insisted on breaking it himself.

“The wand chooses the wizard,” Potter said, softly. “I couldn’t just bin it, could I?”

“Harry? Dinner’s on the table,” Mrs. Weasley called out from the house.

“Are you coming?” Potter seemed concerned for his answer, and Draco -- took a deep breath.

“Yes, I think I will,” he said. “And the-- the other thing?”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t feel comfortable telling me, Draco,” Potter said. “I won’t… I won’t tell anyone what I saw, if you’re worried about that. I… I respect your privacy.”

“Well, that’s new,” Draco said, which he probably shouldn’t have, because it was rude, despite being true.

“Maybe I learned my lesson about spying on people,” Potter said. “Come on, let’s eat. Mrs. Weasley’s a really good cook.”

***

Well, Mrs. Weasley wasn’t a great good, not like a French pastry wizard, or any of the fancy, expensive meals Draco had at home, back when Malfoy manor was home. But she was at least as good as the house elves at Hogwarts, and there was plenty of it.

Which seemed to be the normal, because the Weasleys ate like it was going out of style.

Draco sat down next to Potter in what seemed to be a position of some honor in the household, right across from Mr. Weasley, who sometimes asked very odd questions about Muggles, and their tools and lifestyles and habits. Potter explained that Muggles had lifts, just the same as in the Ministry, but that they ran on cables and electricity, and he even sketched one out on a scrap of parchment that Granger had. 

“Really, this is just science, counterweights and all that lot,” Potter said, and he nudged Draco under the table with his knee, almost making Draco choke on a bit of baked ham that tasted strongly of clove. “Muggle magic is called science. Gravity, Newton’s laws of motion, that sort of thing. Really, they’re quite advanced, with the telly and going to the moon and all.”

“I wonder if that would be possible,” Granger wondered. “Going to the moon, with magic. I haven’t read anything about it. Doesn’t anyone want to go?”

“Some wizards have gone to the moon, mione,” Ron Weasley said, speaking around a mouthful of roasted potatoes. “But the blarmy old codger got stuck there, wot? Couldn’t get back for years, had to make do with transfiguring rocks for a house and dodging the Muggle probity things.”

“They’re called _rovers_ ,” Granger said, with that air of smug superiority that said she knew a thing and Weasley didn’t.

“Don’t really see much point in Muggles going to the moon,” Weasley said. “There’s nothing up there. Just rock.”

“And mooncalves,” Potter said. “What? Hagrid told me.”

The conversation went on, swirling around, and Draco stopped listening so much. No one was saying anything about his animal form, and Potter hadn’t mentioned-- the other thing. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t, just that he hadn’t. But Draco was tired. No one had mentioned how exhausting turning into an animal was, for the very first time. He noticed that Granger was drooping a bit, too, and Ariana had all but fallen asleep in her mashed turnips.

“You getting enough there, dear?”

Draco was surprised to realize that Mrs. Weasley was, in fact, talking to him. Further, he realized he was scraping the last remnants of the bangers and mash off his plate with his fork, a habit his mother would have found deplorable.

“Oh, uh, it’s very good,” Draco said, feeling his neck heat.

“Save room for pudding,” Potter said, nudging him again. There was something weird about that, the way Potter’s skin was putting out so much heat that Draco could feel it through their robes. What did he do, snuggle up with a Warming Charm? It was distracting, and Draco couldn’t help put push up against it until their knees were rubbing.

They were nearing the last crumbs of pudding when Ginny Weasley came in, apparating outside the Burrow and striding in, her broomstick over her shoulder.

“Ginny, take that outside, you know there’s no Quidditch allowed past the door,” Mrs. Weasley fussed.

“Oh,” Potter said, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I just remembered, I have some homework I ought to do, for, uh--”

“Transfiguration,” Draco said, not entirely sure why he was helping. “Me, too. Want to side along?”

“Yes, please, that would be great.”

“I’ll take Ariana back,” Granger put in, “as soon as Ron’s done with his third helping of spotted dick.”

“What, it’s good?” Weasley demanded, looking as if he’d like to take a fourth helping and not being able to now, because everyone was staring at him.

Potter all but grabbed Draco’s hand to pull him out the back door. “We can Apparate from the garden as easily as anyplace else,” he said.

“Avoiding your girlfriend, are you?” Draco wondered, as soon as they were in the back. It was oddly quiet, thick and green, in the garden. 

“It’s just,” Potter stammered. “We tried it, it didn’t work out, and I feel-- odd. Talking to her now.”

“You know I don’t care, right?”

“If you didn’t care, why are you helping me with my Transfiguration?”

“I wasn’t,” Draco said. He offered Potter his arm. “Come on, then.” 

There was the terrible squeezing feeling of Apparating, and then they were both outside the Castle.

“It always looks so beautiful, this way,” Potter said. “When no one knows we’re here and you can just look, as long as you like. People might fade away and die, but the castle at Hogwarts. I think that’ll always be here. It makes me feel… proud, somehow.”

“You’re a sap, Potter,” Draco said, without as much menace or scorn as he thought maybe should be in that statement.

“So are you,” Potter said, not quite looking at Draco. “Because you know exactly what I mean.”

Draco didn’t want to admit it, but Potter was right. Hogwarts was home, it was permanent. It was the only thing, perhaps, that most of the British wizards and witches had in common was an abiding love for the school, even with all its flaws and blemishes. Even the Dark Lord had cared about the school. About the institution that endured.

Potter stood there a while longer, just looking, letting the silence stretch between them.

There was no reason why Draco couldn’t have just gone in the castle, but he didn’t. He stood there, next to Potter. His hand on Potter’s arm. And then, when he couldn’t bear it any longer, he said, “Are we going to say anything about--”

Potter actually turned his full attention on Draco, those green eyes bright. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said. “If you want to tell me, I’m happy to listen, but. It’s your concern, Draco.”

When had Potter started calling him _Draco_ , like they were friends?

“And what do you plan, with things that are my concern?”

“Nothing,” Potter said. “It’s exactly that, Draco. Your concern. If you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen, but I rather assume you don’t want me blabbing about it, either.”

“I don’t,” Draco said. It took all the strength in him to meet that green gaze. “I don’t understand. You spent years trying to tell everyone in the school there was something shady about me, but the second you actually find it--”

“There’s nothing shady about _that_ ,” Potter said. “I mean. It’s. Look, my godfather, Sirius-- he spent most of his time as a bloody big black dog. It didn’t make him a different _person_. I know, it’s not like that. And I can’t possibly understand, although I might know, a little. Growing up with Muggles when I was so obviously not one, and they hated me for it. I understand that you want to keep it to yourself, and I respect that, Draco. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Granger and Weasley.”

“They’re part of anyone,” Potter pointed out.

Potter didn’t say that Draco could trust him, which was good, because Draco didn’t. And he didn’t remind Draco that he was good at keeping secrets, because honestly, he wasn’t. He just stood there, silently giving support.

“All right, then,” Draco said. 

“All right, then.”

“You’re not really comfortable right now, at the Weasleys,” Draco said, more to fill the empty air than anything else. Change the subject. They’d touched on it, and Draco didn’t want to draw any more attention to it than necessary.

“It’s not the rest of the Weasleys, not really,” Potter said. “Well, maybe Mrs. Weasley, a little bit. I think she really had her heart set on me being part of the family. I’m not going for Christmas, not this year. I want to give it some time to heal. I’ll spent the holidays with the Mr. and Mrs. Tonks. They’re guardians for my godson, Teddy Lupin. He’s just a baby, it’ll be fun. Babies love Christmas.”

“Well, if you get bored with that,” Draco said, listening in amazement as his own mouth did things that he had not authorized it to do, “we’d be happy to have you over for Boxing Day.”

“We?”

“Mother, and I,” Draco said. “But mostly Mother.”

“I never did really get a chance to thank her,” Potter said, thoughtfully. “Sure, then. Boxing Day.”


	12. The Ministry of Mistakes

“Malfoy,” Potter said, catching his elbow for a moment on the way out of Transfiguration class.

Draco jerked his arm, reflexively, then didn’t know how to say anything about it when Potter’s expression fell, somehow. He’d never really liked to be touched by people he didn’t know, a habit that had served him well for the first six years at Hogwarts, establishing himself as a wizard of note, and general all around toerag of a human being.

And then the habit had served him even better with the Dark Lord; Voldemort had admired the Malfoy family, Pure-blooded, beautiful, strong.

Draco’s disdain for people touching him, well, that had won him approval, and had the side benefit of not having to be all handsy with the likes of Greyback or other particularly non-desirable allies.

_We brought it on ourselves_ , Draco told himself, firmly. Just because they didn’t know how bad it would be did not excuse that they’d gone into it, eyes open, eagerly.

Draco felt the weight of that shame, even more than he felt the sudden dismay on Potter’s face, and he opened his mouth and said something he wasn’t sure he’d ever really said before. Certainly not to Potter.

“Sorry,” Draco said. “You startled me.”

“Probably lucky you didn’t pull your wand on me,” Potter said.

“Habit of a lifetime,” Draco said, but he smiled when he said it, and Potter smiled back. “What-- what did you want to talk about?”

“Come on, out of the way,” someone said, and Potter got shoved, stumbled into Draco, and they both fetched up against the wall in the corridor, Potter’s arms bracketed around Draco’s shoulders.

“Oh.”

Draco wasn’t sure which one of them said it, but he noticed Potter’s face was so close, his eyes were very, very green, and when Draco looked up at him -- when had Potter gotten so _tall_? -- his pupils flared.

“So,” Potter said, not moving from that spot, standing right up in Draco’s personal space, practically _looming_ over him. “So, uh, McGonagal has to take Ariana Filch into the ministry herself -- something about having to be an adult that’s a guardian, so we don’t count, in order to register her Animagus form. And uh, Hermione asked me if she and Ron could go alone because they want to spend some time together-- and uh… I was wondering if you’d go to the Ministry with me, if you wanted to go, that is, and we could register together?”

“Don’t trust me to register, if you’re not babysitting me, Potter?” Draco didn’t sneer, and he didn’t mean it sarcastically. He knew he couldn’t be trusted, wouldn’t have trusted himself if he didn’t know that he was trying to make up for the things he’d done as best he could.

“I didn’t say that,” Potter said. “I asked if you’d like to go _with me_.” Potter stopped looming, ran one hand through his untidy hair making it stick up all over the place. “I don’t-- the Ministry doesn’t hold a lot of fond memories for me. I don’t really want to go alone. I thought maybe you could understand that.”

That came out cracked, almost _vulnerable_. The old Draco Malfoy, the boy he used to be, would have pressed that advantage, turned it to his own purposes. The new Draco, the one who was trying to be better… discovered that he was a little cold, without Potter practically squashing him into the wall. And that he was more touched by Potter’s admission. “All right then,” Draco said. “Apparate with you after lunch on Saturday?”

“It’s a date.” Potter walked off then, letting Draco sag against the wall in some mixture of confusion, disappointment, and a strange little thrill in his belly.

_A date._

Draco spent the next two days pondering that, to the point that he actually messed up his potions work so badly that Granger, who seemed to have taken a sudden interest, hissed instructions on how to fix it into his ear. 

That was the first time he’d scraped by with a lecture in Potions class, ever. Even when Slughorn didn’t like him, Draco was a master potion-maker. He could have fixed it himself, if he wasn’t studying Potter’s profile and trying to figure out if he meant a date. Or a date, date. Spend some time together, like Granger and Weasley were doing.

An _actual_ date.

And it meant that Draco spent half of Friday evening dithering over his clothing choices to find that he owned nothing date-worthy that he’d bothered to pack in his trunk. Not that it would matter, Potter would probably wear a muggle tee, jeans and his old trainers. 

Probably.

But what if he didn’t? What if he thought it was a date-date and he dressed up, and Draco was the one wearing old muggle clothing?

In the end, Draco decided that they were going to the Ministry, so looking smart was only suitable and if Potter wanted to make something of it, Draco would tell him so.

Which didn’t mean he had suitable clothing _with him_. He hadn’t expected to need any. He ended up sending his owl to his mother, and she sent the package back, an emerald green, tight fitting robe with black shirt and trousers, and Draco studied the effect in the mirror.

Potter’s eyes were going to fall right out of his head.

If it was a date.

When Draco entered the Great Hall for lunch on Saturday, the ceiling was a sky full of cheerful sunlight; a nice day for late autumn, the leaves would be thick on the ground. Well, not in London, but the walk out of the castle and down to the grounds would be nice.

Draco took his seat and absently poked a fork into his roasted chicken.

“You, ah-- look nice,” Potter said, sitting down across from him.

Draco glanced up and nearly lost all the ability to speak entirely. Potter… also looked nice. His robes were deep red and set off his complexion, bringing out the green in his eyes. His hair, which was never tidy, had that ‘just hopped off a broom’ look. Draco discovered it was nearly as difficult to accept a compliment as it was to apologize, but he managed it, a muttered thanks, you too, into his potatoes.

Potter ate for a while in silence, but Draco could almost feel the weight of his gaze. Finally, Draco pushed his plate away and watched it Vanish downstairs to be washed. “Are you ready?”

Potter mopped up a bit of gravy from his plate with a roll. “No dessert?”

Draco swallowed hard, then, “if it goes well,” he ventured, “we can get something in town? I don’t want to be too heavy, if it doesn’t.”

“True,” Potter said. “Last thing we need is to be sick at the Ministry.”

There was something kind and warming about Potter’s use of _we_. “Let’s go, then.”

“So, is it the same for you,” Potter asked as they got somewhat out from the school.

“Is what the same? Walking? Yes, Potter, I have in fact, always been able to walk since I’ve been at school.”

Potter laughed, sticking his hands in his pockets, which completely ruined the lines of his robe. “No, I meant your Patronus and your animagus form. Hermione wanted me to ask, she’s writing up a paper on it. Three rolls of parchment so far, and it’s not even for a class.”

“Uh,” Draco said. “I don’t know. I haven’t been-- I’ve never needed to summon a Patronus.”

“I would have thought--”

“The dementors were under strict orders from the Dark Lord,” Draco said, pulling up his robe and shoving the Dark Mark practically under Potter’s nose. “I was protected.”

“Still, it can’t hurt to test the theory,” Potter said.

Draco shrugged, trying for diffident. “I don’t know the spell.”

“I’ll teach it to you,” Potter told him. “Pretty good tutor, if I do say so myself.”

“Just admit it,” Draco drawled, sarcasm in his tone. “You just want to spend more time alone with me.”

Potter turned almost as red as his robes. “Uh--”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco started to say.

“I do, in fact,” Potter said, not looking at Draco.

“What?”

“I do. In fact. Wanttospendmoretimewithyou.”

Draco almost laughed at how flustered Potter looked, but when he opened his mouth to do it, the only thing that came out was, “oh.”

“Oh?”

“Well, all right, then,” Draco said. “I’ll let you teach me the spell.”

Potter shook his head. “Big of you.”

***

The visitor’s entrance to the ministry was boring, but also reassuring. After everything that had happened, this much still remained almost exactly as it was. Or had been, really. The horrible statue that the Dark Lord put up was gone, and the fountain statue had been mostly replaced. 

“I always hated this art,” Potter said. “It’s not Might is Magic, but-- it glosses over everything that wizarding society has done wrong. We made our own Voldemort, the same way Voldemort made his own Chosen One.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

Potter shook his head. “Wizarding society acted as if they were the top of some impossible pyramid, and that everything below us was lesser. Doesn’t win very many friends -- except those who want to suck up to the top in hopes of getting a bigger share of the pie -- and makes a lot of enemies. Even the magical creatures who didn’t actively hate us weren’t all that eager to help. Voldemort was a problem of our own making.”

“You’re getting political,” Draco said, not being quite able to hide a smile. “Planning to make a run for the Ministry, later?”

“Reform might be a priority, yes,” Potter said. “I’ve seen too many places where the people in power didn’t do anything except bolster their own power.”

“Optimist,” Draco accused him. “Sometimes people in power do things just to take the mickey out of someone else. Like you.”

“Well, that, too,” Potter said. “I was pretty much a thorn in the ministry side, for as long as I could manage to be.”

“I know.”

“Spite is a grand motivator,” Potter said, and then they were in the front of the line, and Potter deposited his wand.

“Eleven inches, holly wood, phoenix-feather core, been in use eight years, rebuilt. Is that correct?”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

Draco was next, dropping his wand in. 

“Eight and three quarters inches, cherrywood, with centaur tail hair. Spell-locked by ministry order.”

“Yes,” Draco said, scowling as he took his wand back. Not that Potter wouldn’t know, he suspected, but it was always awkward, hearing about it and having to face someone--

“They locked your wand?” Potter asked as they pinned on their visitor’s badges and headed toward the lift for Registrations.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Draco said.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, hotly. “How are you managing to cast spells for class with a locked wand?”

“With some difficulty,” Draco admitted. “It’s fine, Potter, don’t worry about it.”

Potter shrugged, and then dismissed it, putting his hand lightly on Draco’s elbow, as if escorting him. Or seeking comfort. Draco wasn’t sure what it was, but Potter’s hand was warm and the touch didn’t bother Draco, so he just… let it happen.

Clusters of wizards stopped to stare.

There were a few gruff whispers that Draco couldn’t quite hear, but, the peal of cruel laughter drew his attention. Potter’s face turned red.

“What?”

“It’s nothing,” Potter said, teeth clenched. “Just ignore them.”

“Me?”

The look Potter shot him was green and sharp and somehow full of compassion.

Oh. They weren’t gossiping about Potter. They were whispering about _Draco_. Draco lifted his chin. Damned it he was going to present anything other than his straight shoulders to that rabble. Potter gave him a quick smile. “I know how it feels,” he said.

In fact, Draco supposed Potter did. If anyone could.

Draco was trying so hard not to hear that he couldn’t, in fact. His blood was pounding in his ears, his breath whistling in and out of his throat. One band of wizards had left their position and were following them.

They weren’t going to do anything in the bloody ministry, were they? How--

Potter’s hand moved from Draco’s elbow past the edge of Draco’s sleeve to his wrist. “They think I’m…”

“Forcing me? Accompanying me to some disciplinary meeting?”

“Yes,” Potter said. 

“This should give them something different to gossip about,” Draco said, and as if putting his hand in the fire, twisted his fingers until Potter’s palm was hot against his, their fingers intertwined.

Holding hands.

Potter had said he wanted to spend time with Draco, hadn’t he? Draco’s heart stopped beating in fear and terror and sudden wonder.

Potter’s breath caught, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

And then he squeezed. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s register.”

“Absolutely.”


	13. A Matter of Surrender

“All you did was make more work for yourself,” Ariana pointed out, but she was triumphant, a little smirk on her face. “I found it.”

“Did you?”

“I did, and you want to know how?”

“When you’re acting like a little Hermione Granger, no, I’m not certain that I do,” Draco said. He managed to hold out all of about three minutes, and then asked, “okay, tell me. How did you find it?”

She proudly held up Guilderoy Lockhart’s autobiography, _Magical Me_. The real Lockhart had been an idiot and a fool, and the picture on the back cover winked and smiled and acted charming.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, truly, there are more uses to the spell,” Ariana said. “It’s in the chapter about hair care products. That there were more ways than one to change your appearance. Lockhart mentions the spell, and references the book I found it in as a _beauty remedy_ for those who are born ugly and want to fix that. The git.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Draco said.

“Beauty is not a goal that anyone needs to aspire to,” Ariana returned, hotly. “It’s fleeting and pointless.”

“People say that,” Draco said, “when they’re born without it. Or they resent the implication that they get something just because they’re beautiful, but really, is it any different from someone who’s naturally smart? Would you not say they earn what they get, for their brains? And is that, in the end, really any different?” 

“Why are you making this complicated? I want to be mad at beautiful people and blame Lockhart for being shallow,” Ariana complained. “I don’t want to have to _think_ about it.”

Draco laughed. “I did not want to think about it, either. I was perfectly happy to believe that mudbloods were weak and the enemy. I didn’t want to consider that Granger had any talent, or that Potter was--” Draco trailed off.

“You really changed, didn’t you?” Ariana asked.

“It wasn’t by choice,” Draco said. “If you asked me then, I wouldn’t have thought I needed to change, and there are times, now, when I resent having to reevaluate my entire life. Everything I knew was wrong, and that’s a painful lesson.” Draco shook it away. “So, back to the more important matters, what does Lockhart say about beauty?”

“Aside from a very long diatribe about why beautiful people succeed more, he comes around to admitting that not everyone will win Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile award, and that he had discovered a few methods by which one could improve upon what nature gifted you.”

She waved a second book at him. _Transformations and Transfigurations: What do you do when you’re not happy with you_ , by Graham Instar. “So, I went looking for Lockhart’s total body and personal makeover, and this book has it. The spell to change yourself, and the rune to lock it in place, so that once you cast it, you don’t have to change back. It’s a series of spells, in fact. Two different spells you’ll have to cast; one of them will change your gender, the other one changes your looks -- secondary gender characteristics and the like. Then there’s a potion to be able to grow a beard, if you want to. And a charm to change your voice. And then finally, the Rune to lock it all into place. It’s not going to be easy. Or cheap.”

“I hardly expected so,” Draco said. He pulled up a chair at the nearest table and sat down. “Let’s start with making a list of necessary materials.”

The spell was even more complicated than that; Draco didn’t take Ancient Runes, so he hadn’t ever done any runework before. But apparently it required special stones to place the runes, and then special inks to make the mark, and the whole thing had to be enchanted from the stone and onto his skin. Sort of like his Dark Mark, only better.

“We make have some of this stone and ink,” Draco said, considering it. “The Dark Lord made us all get Dark Marks, those are runes, right?”

“Yes,” Ariana agreed. “With a proteus charm on it, so that it would burn. Stupid way to go about contacting someone. An owl works much better.”

“An owl’s not nearly so dramatic, and it involves taking care of something else. A thing the Dark Lord was incapable of. Caring for a pet, or a person,” Draco said. “The more I think about it, the more I think the Dark Lord was a melodramatic teenager with delusions of grandeur. _Lord Voldemort_ , I mean, that’s just ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“I think if more people had laughed at him sooner,” Ariana said, “we wouldn’t be recovering from a second war.”

“You’re probably correct,” Draco said. He flipped a page. “Where am I going to get these potion ingredients? They’re incredibly rare and expensive.”

“What is it you’re looking for?” Potter said. In truth, he probably hadn’t snuck up on them, just Draco was busy looking in books, not over his shoulder.

“Wow, scare people to death, much?” Draco demanded, putting a hand over his heart, feeling it thud underneath his fingers.

“You know,” Potter said, ignoring Draco’s comment, looking at the list. “Neville’s got most of these plants in his personal greenhouse.”

“I daresay Longbottom’s not going to want me mucking about his precious plants,” Draco said. 

“He might,” Potter said. “Look, you can ask him, right? Be a good opportunity.”

“To what?”

“ _Apologize_ ,” Potter said. “We’re all mates now, remember?”

“Are you getting George Weasley to apologize for stuffing him in the broken Vanishing Cabinet, too?”

“One miracle at a time,” Potter said. “Will you?”

“I suppose I should,” Draco said.

“Great,” Potter said. “Look, Ariana, if it’s all right, can I have a word with Draco?”

Ariana squeaked and grabbed her books. “Of course, sure, you do that, I’ll just-- see you at supper, right?”

“What’s this then, Potter?”

“I have-- I have something for you, but I’m not sure how I can give it to you,” he said. “I think you’re rather going to have to take it.”

“What are you--” Draco’s eyes were drawn to the narrow box that Potter put down on the table.

“You have to win its loyalty back,” Potter told him. “And I’m not sure what that’s going to do--”

Draco snatched the wand out of the box, holding it firm down to the table. “ _You_ have to surrender.”

“Yes, rather--”

It might be his only chance, and Draco was pretty sure his wand would come home to him with this one, desperate act. And Potter wouldn’t fight him; he wanted to give the wand back, right?

“Potter--” Draco leaned in.

“I think, really, Draco, you could call me Harry--” he said, a touch breathless.

“Harry,” Draco said. He tipped his head to one side, so their noses didn’t bump, wet his lips. He kissed Harry; it wasn’t gentle or sweet or any of those things that a first kiss ought to be. This was war, of a sort, and Draco was determined to _win_.

His mouth took possession of Harry’s, tongue moving between those sensual lips, his free hand going to the wild hair at the back of Harry’s neck. Threading through the too-long locks, Draco yanked Harry’s head back, compelling him to surrender, to kiss back, to just let him have this.

_Let me, Harry._

Harry made a soft noise in his throat, his body shifted as he pressed into it, and Draco tasted the inside of his mouth. It was supposed to be something Draco was doing to him, forcing Harry to surrender to him, pushing it on him, but that little noise-- it changed. Everything changed. His traitorous, wrong body wanted nothing more than to melt into it, to give everything. To be--

A spark of magic jolted up his arm; warm and familiar.

Home.

Draco yanked himself backward, feeling his wand returned, the strength of it, how it was, in some unspeakable way, _happy_ for him.

He raised his eyes to look at that fey, green gaze of Harry’s.

“Did it work, then?”

Draco nodded, licked his lips as if he could taste Harry on them still. 

“Good,” Harry said. He stood up, and Draco was once again struck by how tall he was. He pushed past Draco, neck red, lips swollen, hair even messier than usual. He paused at the edge of the door, looked back. “Next time--”

“Will there be a next time?”

Harry actually smiled. “I think maybe there will, at that.”

* * *

Draco took the Hogwarts Express into London for Christmas the way he’d always done, and his mother was at the station, the way she always had been.

But that was all that was the same. They took the general Floo from the Train Station to a shabby, London neighborhood where the muggle innkeeper never said anything about the people coming out of his basement. Draco didn’t know if someone paid the man to keep his mouth shut, or if he was Confounded. It didn’t matter much, either way. Draco dropped two silver sickles in the cup on the way out of the basement.

From there, it was a short walk home, and if it had been any other year, it might have been nice. A few days before Christmas, the ground was pleasantly snowy, not too much to be a hardship, but enough to look pretty, and people, Muggles and Wizard folk alike, were doing last minute shopping.

“We’ll visit your father tomorrow morning,” Narcissa said. “And have a nice supper at the Krup’s Cup. How does that sound?”

“I might have invited a guest for Boxing Day,” Draco said, hesitantly. His mother’s face fell with dismay and Draco hastily added, “Harry Potter.”

“Oh,” Narcissa said, patting Draco’s hand. “I suppose we really can’t say no to the hero of the Wizarding War.”

“He’s not really-- that’s not why I asked him. I asked him because I like him. And he’s having some adjustment period with the Weasleys.”

“Draco, my dear,” Narcissa said, clasping his hand tight. He could feel every bone under her thin skin. She wasn’t eating well. “Do you _fancy_ Harry Potter?”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t thought of that for himself. The way his stomach clenched and twisted whenever Harry was around. The way he found himself constantly looking at Harry’s mouth, or the way his hand itched to try to flatten Harry’s hair. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “Perhaps I do.”

“And does he--”

Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to hear whatever she had to say. If he fancied _Harry_ , of course, his mother would suggest, delicately, that perhaps Draco could, in fact, remain Maia, remain a _girl_. Maia could marry Harry Potter, could restore the fortunes and glory of the House of Malfoy. Narcissa had always been as supportive of Draco and Draco’s choices as she could be, but she’d often mourned the lack of children to carry on the House, that Draco would probably never marry at all--

“He knows, Mother,” Draco said, because that seemed like the fastest way to cut off any conversation about staying as Maia.

He’d never really _been_ Maia. He wasn’t going to do that; even if Narcissa couldn’t see how Draco could be both a _man_ , and still fancy other men. It would be a lot simpler, she would say, and he could have everything he wanted.

Except he wouldn’t be _himself_ , and that was, in the end, more important to him than anything else.

He had to be who he was, or he was no one at all.

Narcissa gave him a look, almost, but not quite disappointed, but all she said was, “do you know if he expects anything extravagant?” The Malfoys had long been known for their dinner affairs, and they could not afford to do anything like that this year. Even if they had the space and the social standing, neither of which they had.

“No, he-- he was planning to spend the morning with our cousins, the Tonks, and then the rest of the day at Grimmauld place. Alone. I didn’t think he should, just because he and the Weasley girl broke things off,” Draco stammered, wondering if his mother was upset that he’d been assuming any number of things. 

“Well, that’s just as well, then,” she said. “I’ll send him an owl and we can have a little supper party.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Draco said, meaning a lot more than just accepting that he’d invited someone to dinner without letting her know terribly far in advance. And Harry Potter. On Christmas day, even. 

“You know I always want what’s best for you,” she said. She knew what he meant.

“I can help,” Draco said. “Ariana’s been teaching me housekeeping spells. I’ve learned loads.”

“That’s good, dear,” Narcissa said. “I could use the help. Magic, you know, it’s so-- difficult, when you’re unhappy. Everything is difficult when you’re unhappy.”

“We’ll do what we can to cheer you up, then,” Draco promised.

Draco decorated, spinning tinsel and ornaments out of his wand. It was very nice to have his old wand back, it felt good in his hand, and it cheered him up immensely. Or that might have been the kiss and the memory of the kiss. He wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to question it closely, either.

He made Christmas biscuits, and he used some of their few Sickles to buy some Christmas Crackers, the fancy kind like they sometimes had up at Hogwarts for people who had to stay the holiday. He learned how to make Treacle Tarts, which he remembered were Harry’s favorite. And the tree was glittering and covered with magical snow.

Everything was ready.

So of course, Draco spent the entirety of Christmas morning wondering if Harry would, in fact, show up at all.

But somewhere just before tea time, there was a knock at the door and when Narcissa answered it, welcoming Harry into their home, he was a little abashed and covered in snow, his Firebolt in his hand. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said, and seemed even more shocked when Narcissa threw her arms around him, snow and all, to hug him.

“I brought, just a few things,” Harry said, as he waved his wand over himself, cleaning up the snow. He shook out of his coat and pulled out a tiny beaded bag. “Borrowed this from Hermione, she’s really very clever.”

From inside the bag, he pulled out a few mince pies, a bottle of firewhiskey, a tray of treacle fudge, and a few wrapped presents that looked like they might have been done by muggles, complete with tape and scissors.

“Remind me to teach you _Donum Buxum,_ ” Draco said.

“ _Draco_ ,” Narcissa said, and how she could hiss a word with no sibilants in it was a form of magic all on its own.

“No, it’s all right, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said. “Draco and I have been working together on a lot of spells this year. I was raised by muggles, so some things, I only know the muggle way of doing.”

Draco looked around at the tiny parlor, with its very minimal Christmas tree, and wanted to apologize. Maybe some of that was on his face, because what Harry said was, “it’s fine. I grew up in the cupboard under the staircase. It’s nice. Cozy. I wish Grimmauld place was cozier. Kreacher does his best, but--”

“How is dear Kreacher?” Narcissa asked. “He was my aunt’s house elf for quite a long time.”

“He’s doing much better these days,” Harry said. “He really makes Grimmauld as welcoming as he can. It’s just a big, empty house.”

“Well, give him my love,” Narcissa said. 

“I certainly will,” Harry said. “If you’d like, I can send him over from time to time. He makes a wonderful beef stew. And I’m sure he’d love to see you both, _noble house of Black_.” Instead of scathingly, that was said with affection. “It’ll do him some good.”

“Very well, dears,” Narcissa said. “I have a few things left to do before supper, you two make yourselves comfortable.”

Draco jerked his chin, indicating that Harry should follow him, and took him deeper into the small flat. His bedroom wasn’t much, but it was his, and they were in private.

“Thanks for having me,” Harry said, looking around Draco’s room with its Slytherin decorations, the few things he’d managed to save from the manor, and a few photographs of his parents when they were younger.

“You look just like your father,” Harry observed.

“I really don’t,” Draco said. “I-- it’s a spell. Polyjuice and a few drops of deaging, so I look exactly like him. When he was younger. I _am_ him, if you will.”

“Does-- am I-- will it make you uncomfortable if I ask what you look like, behind the magic?”

“You saw me,” Draco said.

“Not very well, just enough to--” Harry made a gesture in Draco’s direction, a curve, maybe.

“That I’m a girl.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “If there’s one thing I know about you, Draco, it’s that you’re absolutely a man. I kissed a man.” There was a very direct look there, an _and I’ll do it again if you’re not careful_ sort of promise.

Draco decided to go ahead and meet that promise, that threat, that--

Kissing Harry on Christmas day was, perhaps, the best gift of all.


	14. In All Manner of Things, Delightful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the smuts, so if that's not your thing, stop reading when they move upstairs to the bedroom.

Two days after Christmas, Draco got a letter by owl. Harry Potter’s new owl. She didn’t wait for a return letter, either, flitting off with another parcel on her leg. 

A simple thank you note from Harry for having him over on Christmas, along with an invitation to Floo over to Grimmauld place for the afternoon, if Draco wanted to.

Narcissa immediately packed a hamper of sandwiches and mince pies. “Go, have fun with your friend,” she said. 

Draco took the hamper, startled. He didn’t know why, but-- “Are you encouraging… this?”

He wasn’t quite sure what this was, but he rather suspected his mother knew better than he did. Dating Harry Potter. Draco fancied Harry Potter and Narcissa Black Malfoy was encouraging it.

Sometimes Draco wondered if the world had stopped spinning. If the whole country was under some sort of enchantment.

Or some dreadful curse had been broken.

“Will see you shortly,” Draco wrote and practically tossed Gwidion out the window. The owl hooted at him, and flapped off. 

A few hours later, Draco took the neighborhood floo and was dusting himself off inside Harry Potter’s parlor in a flash.

“Draco,” Harry said, getting up out of a comfortable looking chair immediately and brushing off Draco’s robes. When he straightened, it put Harry’s face exactly in range of kissing, so Draco took advantage of the situation.

Harry was utterly still for a fleeting second, and then practically melted into it, arms going around Draco’s waist to pull him in close. “Good to see you again,” Harry said, breathing harder.

“You, too,” Draco said. “Did you miss me?”

“A bit,” Harry admitted. “Have you-- been here before?”

Draco shook his head. “Not in a very long time. Great Aunt Walburga died when I was a child. But-- I see you’ve done a lot with the place.”

“Molly Weasley started it, really. I think Sirius would have just stayed in his room and sulked, if the Order of the Phoenix hadn’t started using this place as a safe home. More like waging war on the house, really. The whole place was infested with doxies and littered with dark objects.”

“Doxycide’s not hard to brew,” Draco said, although Harry probably already knew that.

“Well, no,” Harry said, “but they were pretty tenacious. Like garden gnomes. Only meaner.”

“Less dreadful than an infestation of basilisks?”

“I’ve only met the one, but yes, I would say so. Come in, then, I’ll show you around.”

The house was huge and ancient, filled with magic. Harry had obviously been trying very hard to change it from the dark, overly formal place that Draco remembered. Some things, however, were still the same.

Great Aunt Walpurga’s portrait still hung in the front hall -- Permanent Sticking Charm, Harry told him -- although it was covered with a sheet. 

“Most of the time that keeps her from yelling at people,” Harry said.

Draco frowned at it. “Have you tried a Switching Spell for the whole wall? You could transfer it, perhaps, somewhere, like the Wizarding Museum of Kent. She’d still be stuck to the wall, and you’d have a new wall right here--”

“Would that work?” Harry breathed, face lighting up. “I really could kiss you.”

“You already did that, but you can do it some more,” Draco offered.

Harry didn’t hesitate, even with Great Aunt Walpurga shrieking in the background about blood traitors and polluting the line and unnatural--

Harry made a rude gesture in the painting’s direction and pushed Draco against the wall, tongue parting his lips, sweeping inside. Draco found his hands bunched on Harry’s sleeves, some Muggle shirt, using the material to hold himself up when all he wanted to do was melt into the kiss, turn into a puddle on the floor. Or at least, he thought, bring Harry down to the floor with him. The idea of having Harry laying over him was shiveringly bright, sparking interest all the way up and down Draco’s body.

Although, perhaps, not in front of Great Aunt Walpurga.

“If it makes you feel better, even I found her unpleasant when she was still alive,” Draco offered. Harry showed him into one of the sitting rooms. It was nothing like it used to be, all the old furniture had been chucked, old pictures binned. The curtains had been replaced with a sort of shifting blind that Muggles used. It was, in fact, almost cheery. Harry had put flowers on the end tables, with an Everlast charm on them.

“It doesn’t,” Harry said. “It’s kind of sad, really. Most of her family is dead, and the only memory of them is screaming on a wall. That’s no way to be. Sirius hated it here. And he was stuck here, in no small part, because of people like her.”

Draco nodded. “It’s over now. You know, I know--”

“What?”

“I know a painter,” he said. “If you wanted to have Sirius’s portrait done. I know it’s not the same, but maybe you could still talk to him, sometimes.”

Harry shook his head. “I learned that lesson,” he said. “I got to say goodbye. To my parents, to Professor Lupin. It’s time to let them go, even if I miss them, sometimes. To start a new life. I-- wouldn’t mind starting one… with you.”

Draco practically choked. “Me?”

“Why not?” Harry said, sounding belligerent. “You like me, I like you. We made mistakes, we learned better together. We’re survivors. It’s… there’s nothing wrong with it.” He glared back toward the portrait, which was still yelling.

“I-- I didn’t say that,” Draco murmured. “Just saying, it’s a little early to be picking out curtains.”

“Is it? We’ve known each other _our whole lives_ ,” Harry said. “I know the worst about you. You know the worst about me. When-- when you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you kinda want that to start… right away.”

Draco didn’t know how true that was; he was still getting used to the idea that Harry wanted to kiss him. And for that matter, that he wanted to kiss Harry. It was all so new and confusing at a time when he was already trying to go through radical life changes on his own. But wouldn’t it be nice, he thought, if he had someone who supported him, wholeheartedly. Who wasn’t drowning in his own grief the way Mother was. Who could help him, while he helped them? He had a lot to offer Harry, not the least of which was innate knowledge of the general day-to-day life of being a wizard. 

“We still have half the term,” Draco pointed out.

“Yes,” Harry said, practically purring as he tugged Draco down onto a squashed looking sofa. Based on the way it sagged, he thought perhaps Hagrid had been to visit.

Draco wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to, but he was agreeing to it, nonetheless. The idea of a new life, of maybe moving in with Harry after school was over. Maybe they’d be able to balance each other out, the Chosen One and the Traitor. Draco didn’t know, but when Harry’s mouth came down on his again, the way he yielded under the onslaught of kisses until they were sprawled on the sofa, Harry cradled in the vee of Draco’s thighs, what he did know was that he wanted this.

He’d never wanted anything as much in his life. His desire for Harry ignited everything in him like a cleansing fire, leaving not ash, but crystal bone that could be built on. Not destroying, but renewing.

“Yes,” Draco agreed. Yes, this. Yes, you, yes me.

Yes.

Yes, always.

Time passed in a slurry of heated, slow kisses. Harry’s hand on Draco’s thigh. Draco rocking his hips up into it. Sensation and warmth, need and slow building passion.

“I want to touch you,” Harry said, his voice rough with need. “Is that--”

“Please.”

“It’s okay?” Harry asked, pulling back a little. “I-- don’t want you to be uncomfor--”

Draco took Harry’s hand and slid it down the length of his body, until Harry was cupping Draco’s groin. “What, Potter, you need an engraved invitation?” He meant it to come out somewhat sarcastic instead of breathless, but O for Outstanding Effort, he supposed.

Harry kissed him again, hungrier this time, somehow. He nipped at Draco’s throat, hands roaming with abandon, touching his chest, his thigh, his arse, and the whole time, Draco never thought this was wrong, or stupid, or even just a fling. It was everything he’d been brought up to believe was wrong, blood-traitor-- he silenced that voice with another kiss, giving himself over to Harry’s care.

And even that didn’t seem enough. He didn’t want to be sheltered, treated gently. Cosseted. He twined his hand in that thick, unruly hair and pulled, dragging Harry’s mouth back to his. Harry’s mouth was stealing all of Draco’s sense, like the perfect charm.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Harry said. He pushed Draco’s robes up until they were bunched uncomfortably around his armpits, which Draco considered shifting and helping to get them off, and then Harry’s hand went down the front of Draco’s trousers and he forgot all about discomfort, arching up into that heavy, clumsy touch.

He burned with it, wanted it, wanted more, more, more, and he shifted, getting his hand in between them, rubbing the heel of his hand over the bulge in Harry’s muggle jeans. Harry made a soft, needy sound in Draco’s ear, a whispering moan, and--

“Do you-- um, want to move this to a bedroom?” Draco wondered. He knew that this was Harry’s home, that no one else lived at Grimmauld, but still, it seemed strange to get naked in the parlor.

“Yes,” Harry hissed, and he stood up. He pulled his tee over his head, making his hair even more messy. Draco paused to admire, the lean quick build of a Seeker, his skin dusky and smooth, all but hairless aside from a line of black curls under his navel. 

Draco’s fingers itched to touch that skin, and after getting rid of his own robes, leaving the trousers undone, he indulged, running his fingertips over that taut skin, watching as Harry shivered under his hand.

The upstairs hallway was bright and comfortable, with bright wallpaper and the bedroom doors all standing open. “This was Regulus’s room,” Harry said, showing it to him. Very Slytherin and neat, emerald green with silver chasings. “He was a hero, you know. And Sirius’s room, but I use it now. A lot of the decor was also done with sticking charms. I may have to build an entire shack somewhere to put girlie posters on. Maybe a muggle college or something.”

Sirius Black’s bedroom was a tribute to both Gryffindor and to annoying Walpurga Black. Not unlike the downstairs painting of Draco’s great aunt, Harry had put up curtains over some of the posters. Nearly naked muggle women cavorted with the sort of transport they used. Cars. 

“I’ve never been in a car,” Draco murmured. “What’s it like?”

“Oh, you know, not as good as a broom,” Harry said. “Better than the Floo network. Or portkeys. Don’t care much for portkeys. I got my Muggle license. Sometimes I go up to Kent and visit my cousin Dudley. He’s not as bad as he used to be, but he doesn’t take kindly to my Apparating on his doorstep. The car makes him feel less threatened. I’d blame Fred and George, but he was like that before.”

“You didn’t bring me up here to talk about your family,” Draco suggested.

“No, I didn’t,” Harry said. “But now you’re here--”

“You don’t quite know what to do with me?”

“I… no. I want you to feel safe and comfortable, whatever we do,” Harry said. “But I’ve never--”

“You’re a _virgin_? Why do I not believe that, Potter?” He always found himself retreating into formality whenever he was uncomfortable with whatever Harry had to say. If Harry had been with another woman before, would he expect Draco to-- well, to have girl parts? And what if he changed midway through? Or, did Draco have a man’s body, in which case, Harry might not know what to do with that, either.

“It doesn’t matter what I’ve done with other people,” Harry said. “Other people aren’t _you_.”

“It’s hardly a boggart that I’ve got in my trousers,” Draco said,

Harry spluttered. “Well, thanks so much for that, now I’m wondering how boggarts make little boggarts, and I didn’t really want to know that.” He laughed and it was warm and rich and for a change, Draco didn’t worry that Harry was laughing at him. Which was nice.

“I mean, I’m a boy,” Draco said. “And I’m on my potion, so all my parts… I mean, they’re just like yours.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, you know,” Harry said. “Whatever you’ve got, even if it’s a boggart. What matters-- what matters to me is that you’re sharing it with me. I… Draco, I like you, rather a lot. And I want for you to want-- to want to. So if you don’t want to, I don’t have any expectations.”

“I’m not fragile,” Draco said. “Or uncertain, or worried about anything.” Draco reached for Harry’s hand and ran it down Draco’s body, until they were touching again. “I want to.”

It wasn’t quite true. He was worried. Draco wasn’t a virgin, but he wouldn’t have counted his experience as particularly pleasant. Just necessary and done with, and best forgotten. He’d needed to feel like a man, and so he found someone who would, and who didn’t ask too many questions. They were dead now, in the Dark Lord’s war, so it didn’t matter anyway.

“I want to. With you.” Just in case Harry was still really that thick, that everything needed to be spelled out for him. It was kind and it was nice, but what Draco needed wasn’t to talk everything through and examine every little feeling. What he needed was to get on with it already.

“Today, that would be good, too, Harry.”

Harry laughed again, took his hand off Draco and ushered him into the bedroom. “Well, let’s, then.”

Harry, Draco decided, wasn’t a virgin, but he hardly had _experience_. 

It took a few minutes to get out of their clothes, but when that happened, Harry didn’t seem to know what to do next. Only been with girls, Draco conjectured. One girl, more than likely.

After a few awkward questions, Draco ended up taking pity on him. Harry had a muggle made oil, with a battered screw top. Why muggles always wanted to twist a thing, Draco would never know.

“Here, like this,” Draco said, pushing the bottle aside. “ _Olivareum_.” With a swirl of his wrist, his wand produced a layer of magical lubricant across his palm. “If you practice enough, you can get it right where you want it.”

“Maybe I’ll practice,” Harry said, “but I don’t know. Got you right where I want you.”

“I’ll make it a point to show you exactly how useful it can be,” Draco said. “Later.”

“Later,” Harry agreed and Draco decided he liked that work. Later. It implied a whole bunch of lovely things like _again_ , and _more_ , and _still_.

“Here,” Draco said, using the lubricant to smear a wide streak of wet over his own arsehole. “You have to use a heavy hand with it. No such thing as too much lube. It’s a tight fit. Gotta-- can’t just rush in. You have to ease the way.”

“How?”

“Use your fingers,” Draco told him. “You need to-- sort of open me up. So it’ll fit. You can’t just ram it in like you’re knocking on the castle gate. You haven’t really done this before, have you?”

“Not from this side of things, no, if it matters.”

“Someone else buggered you?”

“Are we sharing that information?” Harry wondered, eyebrow up, but he did, in fact, start the process of getting Draco prepped, so Draco wasn’t going to complain too much. “I don’t mind telling you, but this hardly seems the appropriate time. Are you jealous?”

Draco uttered a moan as Harry’s finger rubbed over the opening to his body, it felt too good to keep quiet, and Harry’s face-- did a thing. He looked both delighted and heated at the same time, like making Draco feel good was something he enjoyed, and, possibly, was something he didn’t know he could do.

“Don’t be daft, of course I’m not jealous,” Draco said, spreading his thighs a little wider and glaring at Harry as if he wasn’t naked and writhing under him, as if it was just another one of their endless arguments. “Just, imagine that, the famous Harry Potter, losing his cherry.”

“You are--” Harry accused.

“No-- well, all right, then, maybe a little,” Draco said. “If anyone should have you bent over and begging for it, by rights, it should be me.”

“You’re such a romantic, I can hardly stand it,” Harry said, and then he pushed in, crown of his cock breaching Draco’s opening, and Draco was too busy sucking air and trying to breathe through the burn to retort. “This is what it’s going to be like, with you, isn’t it?”

How Harry could still talk coherently was beyond Draco’s comprehension, the utter arse.

“What’s--” Draco demanded, arching his hips to ease the pressure and then-- oh, then it was good, and he was back in control, giving Harry a dry look. “That’s what it’s going to be like, and are you planning on doing anything, now that you’re in?”

“Maybe--” Harry said, and he moved his hips a little, delicious and slow, “--I’ll make you do all the work. Seems only fair, since you’re going to be arguing with me about every… little… thing. For the rest of our lives. Twenty years from now, some fancy do at the Ministry, and you’re going to be telling everyone-- what a bother I am.”

“You are a bother,” Draco retorted, moving with Harry’s strokes. “And your pillow talk is execrable.” 

“Ah, you wouldn’t know what--” Harry said, breathing hard, “--to do if I were nice to you.”

“This isn’t nice?” Draco wondered, scowling. He’d show Harry not-nice if he wanted it so bad. Draco knew what to do; he lifted up, until he was almost out, and then, slow, and as he slid down, he squeezed, two, three, four-- flexing those inner muscles, sending jolts of pleasure through both of them. They wouldn’t last that way, not Harry and certainly not Draco. But Harry had all but cast a spell on Draco, taunting him, bringing out that competitive nature.

_You first._

There was no breath left for talking or teasing. Draco had to concentrate on what he was doing, and Harry looked very much like a landed fish, mouth open, eyes wide, sucking air. Shame he looked so bloody fine, even red-faced and sweaty.

They strained at each other, a bit more like a fight than lovemaking. Seemed typical. 

“What are you thinking on, so hard, up there?” Harry asked.

“I’m thinking,” Draco said, teeth clenched, as he ground down, squeezing until Harry gasped and his face went slack with pleasure, “that you look really close, Potter.”

Harry laughed, suddenly, jolting them both together in new and exciting ways and Draco couldn’t manage to stifle an appreciative groan. “And here, I was thinking we might, in fact, horrify our first year selves, if we used a time-turner and went back to tell them.”

Draco snorted indelicately, and then found himself rolled over and pinned under Harry’s delicious weight. “Who says I didn’t? Maybe I’ve known, this entire time.”

If he had, Draco certainly would have thought it some sort of hex, doomed to make the worst mistake, to let himself get close to Harry Potter. Or maybe not. “Didn’t I try to make friends, that first day?”

Harry’s eyebrows went up, but that didn’t stop him from pushing harder into Draco, from grabbing one thigh and pushing it back to change the angle until they were rutting desperately at each other, racing to completion -- _by Merlin’s beard, you will come first, Harry Potter_ \--

“You did.”

_And haven’t I spent my entire life trying to impress you? Trying to get under your skin, the same way you were under mine?_

“I always noticed you,” Harry said, touching Draco’s hair tenderly, and it was that tenderness that undid him. “Always, I couldn’t help watching you, thinking about you. Even when you made me so angry I wanted to punch you. I just-- there you were, at the center of everything in my life.”

“Sap,” Draco accused him, and then arched into it, “Merlin’s beard! Harry-- kiss me, you idiot!”

Harry was moving with him, driven with him, their breath was harsh and mingled and Harry’s mouth came down on his, wet, sloppy, and deliciously perfect.

If Harry came before Draco -- and Draco was absolutely going to count it that way -- it was only by a few seconds.

Harry collapsed on top of him, too heavy for long, and he was sticky and sweaty, which could get uncomfortable fairly soon.

But right now, it was nice.

Draco felt safe, protected.

_Loved_.


	15. Charms and Potions

“It’s _Vox Veritos_ ,” Harry said. He demonstrated the wand wave with a flick, giving it a little jab at the end. “I think. Pretty sure.”

“You’re useless,” Draco teased, laying back on the squashy bean bag that they’d liberated from the Charm’s classroom cabinet.

“Are you, uh, going to stay this way?” Harry asked.

“What do you mean?” Draco took a breath. They hadn’t really talked, not a lot, about _Draco’s little problem._ (Harry had shared some of the stories of the Marauders with him, including the joke about Lupin’s lycanthropy. So, they’d started calling Draco’s spellcasting, his little problem.)

“Well, I mean, right now, you look just like Lucius did, when he was in school, right? But that’s… honestly, I thought you looked more like your mom.”

Draco heaved a sigh. “Maia does look like my mother.” He didn’t like using that name, that wasn’t his name, and Maia was a dead person, she was gone. She didn’t exist, shouldn’t have existed. 

“So, when you change, permanently, will you still look like this, or--”

No, he wouldn’t. “I look like Lucius because of the polyjuice potion,” Draco said. “When I do the switch, my facial features will change. I’ll probably be shorter. My hair--” Draco flipped the ends of his blond hair out of his face. It was, in fact, one of the things he liked about Maia’s appearance, the black and golden hair twined together. He wasn’t sure what that would look like with a man’s severe cut, but he assumed it would look good. The House of Black produced good looking men and women alike.

“It was always one of the first things I noticed,” Harry said, reaching over to twine a finger through one golden strand. “The way the sun shone on it. It was distracting. I’m sure you’ll be gorgeous, no matter what. Because you’re _you_.”

“My plan was to go to the Continent for a while,” Draco said. “Have adventures or something somewhere else. Come home in five years or so. I wouldn’t be the first wizard to experiment with magic and have it change my appearance.”

“I’d take it as a kindness if you still have a nose,” Harry said, idly.

Draco spluttered. “I think I can arrange that. The Dark Lord was so determined not to die that he forgot-- other things.”

“Voldemort was a fool,” Harry said. “Which made him very, very dangerous.”

“He was powerful,” Draco pointed out.

“So are earthquakes,” Harry said. “I don’t want to emulate one.”

“We’re in agreement on that one,” Draco said. “Not following in his footsteps. And I rather like my nose.” He rubbed fitfully at his arm. It wasn’t worth hiding anymore, so his blackened Dark Mark was often on display, his sleeves folded up. A mark of shame, or mistakes made, or a badge of treason. But everyone knew it was there, so he didn’t hide it. “I wonder, sometimes, if this-- if some scars will ever go away.” Without really meaning to, his eyes flittered up to Harry’s scar.

Harry shrugged, pushing his hair up so Draco could see it better. “Sometimes-- things just leave a mark. It’s okay. Eventually, it won’t mean anything anymore.”

They’d spoken about scars and their permanence before, but it seemed, somehow, they had grown some, come to a better acceptance of it, in those few short months.

“I hope so,” Draco said. “Sometimes I think about what we did. In pride and arrogance, and also just in believing the Dark Lord. And I think those marks went deeper than just flesh and blood. That they left a scar on who we are.”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “But you can’t carry everyone’s burden, Draco. And we still-- Dumbledore believed in second chances. That what you _choose to do_ means more than anything. Even, sometimes, what you did do.” And he went quiet, those green eyes going foggy.

“So, what,” Draco said, cynically, “you just choose to be better, and poof, you are. Like it’s some sort of spell.”

“I think that’s exactly what he believed,” Harry said. “The things Dumbledore did. The things Snape did. Do you think most people talk about how Snape was a bully of a teacher anymore? No. They remember him for being Dumbledore’s double-agent. For giving is the information that we needed to defeat Voldemort.”

“And do you believe that?” Draco wondered. “Snape was awful to you, and as I understand it, the reasons for that were even worse.”

“He was in love with my mum,” Harry said. “He did everything that he did, because of that. There are things I can’t forget. But in the end, he loved my mum. He gave up everything he was, everything he could have had, to try and protect her. I wouldn’t exist at all, wouldn’t have lived, if it wasn’t for Snape. He was a great man. Terrible. But great.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything, and then Draco shook himself off. “Let me try again,” he said, raising his wand. “ _Vox Veritos_.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something, and then squeaked in shock. “I thought you were practicing on you,” he protested as his voice came out several registers higher.

“I think you sound like a very pretty girl,” Draco said.

Harry scowled at him, then shrugged. “It’ll wear off, right?” 

“Supposed to,” Draco said. “It only lasts a few minutes, without the rune to bind it in place.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said. “So, do-- you want to test it on yourself? Do you know what you want to sound like, when--”

“When I’m fully myself?”

“That’ll work, love.”

Draco repressed the urge to clutch his polyjuice flask to his chest. As it was, he didn’t have terribly many doses left. The work he’d been doing for the school barely paid enough. He was running at an ingredient deficit, especially with the expenses of other spell ingredients. The rune itself was going to cost a bundle, and if he botched it, there would be no trying again. Not for a long time.

He took a breath. “All right, then. My potion should wear off soon.” He wasn’t sure he was ready to be Maia in front of Harry. Not on purpose. Maybe not even ever. What would Harry think? It was one thing to see Draco as a man, day in and day out, when he really was one, but when he was returned to Maia?

“I won’t love you any less,” Harry said, as if he could read Draco’s mind. Snape had been teaching Harry Occulamancy, hadn’t he? Reading of thoughts. Was it possible-- “Darling, you need not look quite so horrified. I think after this many years, I know some of what you’re thinking. You’re no one different to me. You’re Draco Malfoy. Either in a man’s body, or a woman’s, or a ferret.”

“You’re such a bloody great arse, Potter,” Draco snapped, snatching his hand back.

“You only say things like that when I’m right,” Harry said. “It’ll be fine.”

Harry somehow always knew the right things to say. It was infuriating and comforting at the same time. They sat, talked. Harry brought up nothing of consequence, telling Draco about a funny incident at the Weasley’s joke shop, mentioned how much he missed Fred and how different George seemed without his twin.

Familiar. Easy. Didn’t really require a response from Draco, but the words were something he could cling to as they waited.

Just waited, for the seconds to run out of the invisible hourglass that Draco always seemed to sense over his head. Waiting for the potion to run out.

Frequently, Draco slept through the transformation; he’d never needed to stay a man overnight -- although he suddenly was grateful that Harry knew his secret, that if he ever fell asleep with Harry, Harry wouldn’t have been utterly horrified to wake up with someone else.

Hopefully.

“Can I-- can I hold your hand,” Harry offered.

Draco nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. The potion’s effects barely wrinkled his clothes, it shouldn’t affect someone touching him.

“I’ve done polyjuice a few times before,” Harry said. “Unpleasant sort of thing, really. I can’t imagine--”

“If you don’t wait for it to run out, you only feel it when you start anew,” Draco said. “For me, first thing in the morning, mostly. When did you--”

“Oh, you’ll laugh,” Harry said. “Or get mad. Maybe both.”

“Then I must, in fact, hear it,” Draco said.

“So, remember back when Voldemort had put himself into a journal?” Harry asked. “The chamber of secrets was opened, and Ginny almost got killed?”

“Hard to forget. You set our house elf free and Mother was furious,” Draco said.

“I always wondered how house elves could do the laundry without being freed, but whatever, I’m not interested in the mechanics of slavery, just ending it,” Harry said. “It’s really unfair. Anyway, Ron and Hermione and I used polyjuice on ourselves at Christmas. Impersonated Crabbe and Goyle and snuck in to try to get you to admit you were the Heir of Slytherin.”

“I’d say they were acting stupider than normal, but I honestly didn’t notice,” Draco said. “Who did Granger come as?”

“She didn’t,” Harry said. “If you recall, she turned herself into a cat by accident. Polyjuice--”

“Isn’t meant for animal transformations, oh, good heavens,” Draco said. “That must have been a mess.”

“Took weeks to wear off, really.”

“Nice to know even the infallible Granger can cock it up sometimes.” Draco took a deep breath. “I’m changing.”

Harry gave his hand a squeeze and then loosened his grip. There was a skin-searing, bone crushing moment of pain. But Draco was used to it. He did it all the time.

It took him a long time to raise his head, to see what Harry was looking at. To see _how_ Harry was looking.

“What?”

“I can’t decide if it will help you to tell you I prefer you as a man, or to tell you how beautiful and perfect you are.”

“What’s the truth?”

“They’re both true,” Harry admitted. “I like the hair, it’s unique.”

Draco let himself relax by degrees. It really was going to be all right. Harry-- Harry knew, and he didn’t care. Not really. Not in any way that was meaningful to Draco. It didn’t matter to Draco if Maia was beautiful. He wasn’t _her_.

But to know that Harry didn’t find him repulsive, or wrong, or didn’t only love the image of Lucius Malfoy as a young man… well, that was something.

“The voice,” Harry said, “isn’t really all that much different. I mean, I know that’s what Polyjuice does, but--”

“I try to talk a little deeper,” Draco admitted, “even if I have to be-- this for a while.”

“Don’t change that,” Harry said. “I like the voice. I can’t imagine any other voice saying my name.”

There was a flush of heat at that, and a certain knowing look. Harry didn’t want anyone else but _Draco_ saying his name, during love.

Draco nodded. He raised his wand, thought really hard about how his voice always sounded, what it always was. “ _Vox Veritos_.”

“Well, go on then,” Harry said, encouragingly. “Give us a listen.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Draco said, then grinned, because that was his voice, perfect and masculine, upper class pommy accent and everything.

“I love you would be a good start,” Harry joked, “but that’ll do.”

“Love you,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.

“So, the spell, how long does it last?”

“Self-cast, upward of a couple of days,” Draco said, checking the notes at the bottom of the spellbook. “If you cast it on someone else, a few minutes to an hour.”

“You can cast it on someone else?” Harry snatched the spell book up to look. “Why is this not a prank that we ever pulled? Could you just imagine, in class, all the sudden Luna sounds like Professor McGonagal and McGonagal sounds like Luna? How long, you reckon, before they’d suss it out, and everyone’s all laughing, because you don’t really know what you sound like, do you, until you hear a recording.”

“What’s a recording?”

“Muggle thing. Like on the telly.”

“Wait, wait, if I don’t sound like me, to me, what--”

Harry winked. “I’ve got an idea. Cast it on me.”

“My voice?”

“It’ll only last an hour, right? Cast it on me, and then you can hear what you sound like to me. Probably minus the accent, because I’m from Privet Drive.”

“You’re from _Godric’s Hollow_ ,” Draco corrected.

Harry sighed, thumbing at the pages of the book. “I guess,” he said. “I mean, I’ve even got to meet them -- my parents, I mean. They were dead, but I talked to them. A bit. I’ve got every word they’ve ever said to me, stored right up here, but I still sound like Aunt Petunia. Although I guess she’s not so bad.”

“She’s terrible,” Draco said. “Your upbringing was criminal. Here--” he waved his wand, concentrating on his own voice again. “ _Vox Veritas_. Now you don’t sound like your muggle relations.”

“Do I-- woah,” Harry said, blinking. Then. “Do I sound like _you_?”

Draco shook his head. “You sound like my father,” Draco said. 

“Because you’re hearing it inside your head,” Harry said. “When you talk, I only hear the sound waves, not the vibrations in your skull.”

“What’s that?”

“Another Muggle thing,” Harry told him, and it was so odd, listening to Harry talk in Lucius’s voice. Draco must be getting really close to Lucius’s final voice. “Muggles don’t have magic, so they understand the world by studying science, and figuring out why things work the way they do. It’s pretty interesting, and all the stuff they learn, I mean, not the muggle stuff, cars and computers and phones, those get messed up around magic, but the science. They study how the body works, and the effects of gravity and-- oh, all sorts of things. That stuff applies to us, as well. We can just change it, temporarily, if we want. With magic.”

“Do they understand the most important things?”

“Such as?”

“Why I love you?”

Harry smirked. “Enemies to lovers, slow burn, 40k.”

“What?”

“It’s a Muggle thing.”


	16. Rocks and Hard Cases

“Field excursion,” Granger announced. “I’ve got permission from Professor MacGonagall to take no more than ten students on a portkey to Norway.”

“And what, exactly, are we going to do in Norway?” Wesley wondered, and Draco didn’t exactly disagree. Norway was known for pickled fish and an abundance of trolls.

“Going to visit Trollrirka,” Granger said. “It will be ever so fascinating to see trolls in their natural environment. I’ve prepared invisibility potions for everyone.”

“Did you make the portkey yourself? That’s top notch magic there, that is,” one of the third years said, getting into the queue.

“We’re going to the _troll church_? That should be fun,” Millicent said, but she shrugged and got in the queue as well.

“Come on,” Draco told Harry. 

“We’re going?”

“I need a rune stone from a troll cave anyway,” Draco said. “Cheaper to get one than buy it.”

“We can harvest a few if you want,” Harry offered. “Sell them off for the rest of the materials you need.”

Draco loved that about Harry; Harry was never offering to pay for things -- although he had wordlessly treated for most of their dates -- instead looking for new solutions to the problems and helping in any way he could. Not afraid to get his hands dirty, was Harry Potter. In fact; “did you suggest this to Granger?”

“What?”

“The-- the field excursion.”

“Budge up there, you lot,” Hagrid said, his enormous bulk taking up most of the queue all on his own.

“Hagrid said something about trolls and troll caves in class,” Harry said.

“And you’ve been doing research on what I need for--”

“Don’t come all over stubborn now,” Harry said, twining their fingers together and pressing his palm to Draco’s. 

“I’m not,” Draco protested. “Just-- you’re being helpful. It’s _weird_.”

“Yeah, I should be totally resting on my achievements as the Chosen One and never do a thing again in my life,” Harry said. “Maybe the minister of magic will give me the Order of Merlin, first class.”

“You know he probably should,” Justin Finch-Fletchley said. “Dumbledore had one for defeating Grindelwald.”

“I don’t remember inviting you to this conversation,” Draco muttered, because really, that was horribly rude. Although Finch-Fletchley was right. How did one go about getting an Order of Merlin, anyway? Mother would know. Draco reminded himself to send an owl to Mother. Or he could just ask Granger. She probably knew the answer.

Which she did, and Draco didn’t even need to ask, because she was already going on about it, commenting extensively that first of all, the wizengamot tended to award OMs to Ministry favorites and hadn’t they all seen that the Ministry was terribly corrupt, and what’s more, Merlin himself was House Slytherin, so an act of bravery--

She faltered and stopped talking as Draco turned around to look at her. 

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she squeaked.

“You know, you could probably take an Order of Merlin second class,” Draco said. He paused, then, “I’m not entirely certain what you’re sorry for. Merlin was a member of Slytherin. Because -- and I think we’ve all forgotten this over the years -- Slytherin is not a house of evil, but a house for people who are resourceful. And ambitious. Those are not, by themselves, bad things. We’ve just let them become that way.”

“True,” Terry Boot added. There were well more than ten people in the queue for Granger’s little excursion now. “I mean, Lockhart was one of ours, supposedly smart and clever, and what did he do? Cast memory charms on everyone and told a pack of lies. He got an Order of Merlin, too.”

At which point the excursion queue became a general free for all about which house had the more notorious members, and how everything could, in fact, be abused.

“Well, then,” Draco said, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder and shoving him and Granger together. "House Scamander will have its first two Order of Merlins, right here, won’t they?”

“Three,” Harry said, pulling Draco in with them.

Draco flushed, felt his cheeks heat horribly. “I haven’t done anything to--”

“Not yet,” Harry said, “but you will. You’re a good wizard, Draco. Really, second only to Hermione in all your classes.”

Draco stopped protesting because there was something very uncomfortable about listening to people praise his abilities when, until last year, all he’d ever done with them was use them to hurt people. He didn’t want to be valued for that. If someone decided to give him an award, he’d really rather it be for something he did _now_. 

But maybe Harry was right; maybe there was something he could do.

Starting, perhaps, with making the Rune spell more commonly available. There was such a stigma against a wizard or witch changing themselves so fundamentally, that the spell was all but ignored. He would write a paper, at least. Or a book.

Make all of this easier to find for the next witch or wizard who was born in the wrong body to change, permanently.

The church itself was fascinating. Huge, rocky, with beautiful formations. Draco walked around, looking up at the ceiling, hearing the way voices whispered through the rocks. He slipped away from the main group, looking around. “ _Videatur opus_.”

“Here,” Granger said, handing him a bag. “Bread, grain, honey. For the stone.”

“Granger--”

“Look, I know that witches and wizards have just taken what they need, for generations, and they don’t consider trolls or centaurs or giants as _people_. But they are. And there are _rules_. Don’t you want to do this the right way?”

Draco nodded. “You’re right. You are. Thank you.”

He took three stones from the caves; one that felt right in his hand, about the size of his thumb, and impossibly smooth on one side. The other two were smaller, one square, one ovalish. They would sell, and he could use the money to buy potion ingredients.

After an hour, the portkey was ready to take them back, but as they were headed toward their individual rooms, Granger nudged him. “I saw that look,” she said, but she was smiling. Strange how he’d always seen her as so ugly, so ordinary, when Hermionie Granger was anything but ordinary. In all ways, a first class witch. “You know, Harry spent _years_ watching you, and because he did, both Ron and I did, too. So, what are you planning?”

“I thought I might write a book,” Draco said, honestly. “I’ve been working on a complicated series of spells, there’s only one healer in all of Britain that knows it currently, and-- well, it’s a mess. And it shouldn’t be that way.”

“Yes, wizards and witches do seem to want to keep inventing the wheel, over and over again. We noticed it when Harry was looking for a water-breathing spell for the Triwizard cup. The library fails me more often than it gives me answers. I was thinking, perhaps, of moving a muggle invention over to wizarding libraries, but it might take the work of several lifetimes.”

“What invention?”

“A card catalog,” Granger said, smug. “Muggles have them. Well, these days, it’s all on computers, so maybe we could start with making an Archival item. A device or artifact that knows -- well, not all the spells that exist out there, but knows where to find them. In a muggle library, you decide what subject you want to study and you look up the subject. Say, teacups, and all the books with teacups are under T for teacup. Or if you know the maker of a spell, you can look up Flammel, for the famous alchemist, and all books by Flammel or about Flammel, will be right there in the catalog. No need to consult Madam Pince, or anything. You just look up the spell, find the book. So much more efficient.”

“Is that what you want to do, then, after school,” Draco marveled. That seemed like a wonderful idea. He’d spent hours in the library himself, not learning anything useful, but trying to find where to _start_ learning anything useful.

“Well, it might be something to do as a side hobby, or on holiday--” that was Granger, right down to the core. Library organization as a _hobby_. “--but I really want to tackle some of the important issues in the wizarding world.”

“She means house elves,” Weasley said. “You remember, the Spew and stuff. She’s mad about it.”

“It’s S.P.E.W., Ron, and I thought you’d changed your mind about it.”

“Not saying it’s right, ‘Mione,” Weasley said. “But you need a publicity manager or something, because your movement’s not getting off the ground without some catchy phrases and upper class support. I know you’re big into non-human rights, but I know the wizarding world, and you’re not going to convince the Purebloods-- they’re too attached to their privileges.” 

That got a direct look at Draco, who spread his hands. “We don’t have a house elf anymore. It’s doable.” 

“Well, yeah, now that your mum lives in a flat--”

“We were managing without even before that happened, and I might add, on top of having the Dark Lord living in our manor, and if you think he didn’t expect everything to be sparkling, you’re mistaken. We were a magical family, Pureblood back generations. He had _expectations_. And it was more than just detention when we bolluxed it up.”

“Ron--”

“What? I’m just saying, the more things change, the more they stay the same. It won’t take long, you’ll see. The rich don’t give up power, you have to take it.”

“I thought we were done fighting, Weasley,” Draco said, but he was shaking, his stomach in knots. Every time he thought he made ground, was able to step away from what he’d been, and the things he’d done, someone came to push it right back in his face.

And the worst thing about it? He knew that he deserved it. That he could, in fact, never be sorry enough. The apology didn’t end it. 

“We are,” Weasley said, looking disgusted about it. “Doesn’t mean I’m done being angry about it.”

“Really, that’s mature,” Granger said in a tone that meant anything but. Weasley looked vaguely ashamed, and yet, still cross.

Well, two steps forward and one back was still a step forward, Draco supposed.


	17. A Second Parselmouth

“These are for you,” Draco said, dumping a box onto the Scamander breakfast table. “By way of my owl and my mother.”

Harry obediently opened the package and took out a battered book, bound with a green ribbon. “Snape’s potions journals!” Harry flipped to a random page and started reading, his nose so close to the paper that he was in danger of getting ink on it.

Granger sniffed. “I still think it was remarkably unfair of Professor Snape. To find better ways to make potions and to keep that information all to himself!”

“Come on, you know the git,” Weasley said around a mouthful of toast. “He wanted everyone to think he was something special.”

“He was,” Harry insisted. “But also, a deeply flawed man. Broken. I know. I’ve seen his memories. He-- I could have become just like him.”

“Except that you’re a good one, mate,” Weasley said.

“Because of you, and Hermione. I had good friends--”

“And you weren’t a blood purist arsehole,” Weasley said. “Snape might have been just like you, or Neville, for that matter. I don’t care. He was an arse, and that’s all that needs to be said. Even when he wasn’t a Death Eater-- he was horrible.”

Draco bit at his lip, remembering Snape standing behind him, arms around Draco’s shoulders, demonstrating the proper method for stirring a cauldron. It would never matter to him the other things that Snape had done. Snape had been Draco’s friend and beloved mentor.

Harry nudged him, giving him a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know how you feel,” he murmured, smearing more jelly on his toast. “But I know a bit. Everyone worships Dumbledore. But some of the things he did were super, super shady. It feels weird, still loving him, and knowing what he was. Also, it _sucks_ , agreeing with Rita Skeeter.”

“Even a stopped clock is right twice a day,” Granger said, picking up one of the other books. “I’ll say this much, at least Snape’s chalkboard writing was better than this. I suppose it makes sense that we didn’t know Snape was the Half-Blood Prince. It’s a wonder he didn’t go blind. Poor penmanship, that’s just laziness.”

Weasley snorted into his drink. “You sound like Mum. I can just see you with a handful of kids, admonishing them to practice their flicks.”

Granger blushed from her neck all the way to the roots of her hair, and the look she gave Weasley was almost as embarrassing.

“No having children at the breakfast table,” Harry said without looking away from the potion method he was reading.

“Harry!” Granger gasped as if offended.

“It’s a standing rule,” Harry said. “Nothing to do with you personally. I thought I’d just remind you.”

“Right,” Granger said, glaring through her blush. “So, I’ve enchanted this quill for you -- it’s not like the Quick Quotes, it just writes down what you say. So, when you’re ready to start translating Snape’s gibberish into workable methods, we can do that.”

“You are brilliant,” Weasley said. “Relentless, terrifying, beautiful, and brilliant.”

Harry scooped up the books, blank scrolls, and Granger’s quill. “Since we’re obviously ignoring the breakfast rule, I’m going to the library. Draco?”

“Right behind you,” Draco said.

* * *

“There are times I miss the Room of Requirement,” Draco murmured. Harry was reading out of Snape’s potion journal and the quill was making a pleasant accompaniment, scratching across parchment.

“ _Scriptarum subsisto_ ,” Harry said, waving his hand, and then gave Draco his attention. “Me, too. We used to have D.A. meetings there. Some of my best spellwork…”

“You should teach at Hogwarts, when we’re done with school. I think you’d be the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher ever.”

“I’d thought about being an Auror,” Harry admitted. “Stopping Dark Wizards seems important work. I’d-- I still want my mum and dad to be proud of me.”

“I think any mum and dad would be proud,” Draco said quietly. It wasn’t like his parents hadn’t been proud of him, but maybe they had for reasons that they shouldn’t have. They’d encouraged his fanaticism to the Dark Lord’s cause. History is written by the winners, Draco thought and huffed a sigh.

“I’m proud of you,” Harry said, unexpectedly. “It can’t be easy, doing what you’re doing. I know how it felt when I had to admit Cedric might have been right -- even though he was dating Cho Chang.”

“But you did it,” Draco said. “You could never be anything less than fair.” And brave and noble. “I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s my choice, don’t you think,” Harry said. “To decide what I want and deserve? I want you; doesn’t matter to me what other people think. Including you.”

“I can’t decide if you’re noble, or an arse, Potter,” Draco said, closing his book and swatting Harry on the head with it.

“I’m an arse, that’s for sure,” Harry said. “What would you do in the Room of Requirement?”

“Cast this spell,” Draco said. He had finished the base rune, had the three potions prepared, and all that remained was for it to be a new moon, and then he could cast it. “I want to be near the hospital wing if things go wrong -- with everything, I can’t imagine going to St. Mungo’s. But I want privacy. The last thing I want is Peeves walking into an abandoned classroom and seeing me, mid-transformation.”

“Do you trust Hermione?”

Draco blinked. “Uh, she’s the best witch in our year.”

“Yeah, but do you trust her? We could go to Grimmauld and cast the spell, if you’re willing to trust her to be on standby, in case things go wrong.”

“She doesn’t know?” For some reason, that hadn’t really occurred to Draco, that Harry would, in fact, keep his word. That he hadn’t told anyone. But also-- if he was willing to bring Granger in on it now, it must mean-- “You’re not ashamed of me?”

Harry stared. “Of course not! I didn’t tell her, because you asked me not to. It’s not her business, unless you want her to know. And no. I could never be ashamed of you. What kind of mate do you take me for?”

Draco took Harry’s hand and put it against his chest so Harry could feel the way Draco’s heart thundered. “The best kind.”

“We’ll do it that way, then,” Harry said. “You can ask her for help, and the next time we have a Hogsmeade weekend, Ron can visit his brothers, and we’ll take a nip back to London.”

Draco bit his lip, then went ahead and jumped. Maybe he didn’t have to -- maybe it would never matter -- but he wanted to. “Weasley can come, too. He’s got a cool head in dangerous situations. I think he can be trusted not to panic.”

Harry kissed Draco’s hand. “You should have been a Gryffindor.”

“Yeah, well, you should have been in Slytherin.”

* * *

Draco wasn’t sure what to expect; he’d come out to his parents so young that he’d practically forgotten everything he’d said. But he did remember the queasy feeling in his belly and the way his chest felt too small to contain everything.

“Huh,” was what Weasley had to say about it.

“That’s some impressive magic you’ve been doing,” Granger added. “And no one from Hogwarts knows?”

“Well, Madam Pomfrey,” Draco said, “and the headmaster. Professor Snape knew, but Slughorne doesn’t. He just knows I need potion ingredients.”

“Like when Lupin was here,” Harry said. “No one needed to know Lupin was a werewolf, just that he was a student who needed a little extra care. Right?” He glared at his friends as if he intended to incinerate them if they didn’t agree immediately.

“Not saying there’s anything wrong with it, Harry,” Granger said. 

“Your parents know?”

Draco pulled up, offended. “Of course my parents know, Weasley, they’re not stupid.”

“I don’t know--” Weasley said. “Your dad was You-know-who’s right hand man, just seems he’d have those old-fashioned views about manly sons.”

“Are you saying Draco’s not manly?” Harry’s eyebrow disappeared into that mop of untidy hair.

“My father, as most Pureblood wizards do, wanted children who were strong in magic and competent with their wands.”

“Which Draco is, of course, we’ve always known that, haven’t we, Harry?”

“So, why tell us,” Weasley wondered. “If you’re going to do the whole rune of thingie-whatsit?”

“Rune of Euphorus,” Draco corrected, cooly.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Weasley said. “Why tell us?”

“It doesn’t really matter what Draco has under his robes, that’s just ridiculous prejudice, isn’t it? Wizards really don’t have anything better to do than judge someone by their -- erm, wands. It’s like with house elves, or werewolves, or half-giants. Everyone who can do magic belongs in the magic world, right, Harry?”

“Right.”

It wasn’t, Draco thought, just that he needed their help. “You have no reason to trust me, I understand that,” Draco said slowly. “And I know it has to be… trying, that I’m with Harry now. So-- if we’re going to be friends, and I’d like that, then trust has to start somewhere.”

Weasley opened his mouth to say something else, and Granger stepped on his foot. “We’re happy to be your friend,” she said.

 _Happy? Are we?_ Weasley mouthed, but didn’t give it voice. Draco loftily ignored him.

“And just think, knowing these spells, Ron, we can use them on our N.E.W.T.S.”

“Oh, because more tests is what I want to think about right now,” Weasley complained.

“We’re going to do this,” Harry said.

“Oh, all right,” Weasley said.

“Yes,” Granger agreed, and then she offered her hand to Draco. Which was really sticking herself out there. Draco used to go out of his way to show that Granger was untouchable, unclean.

He shook her hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, then added, “Draco.”

“Hermione.”

And that… well, seemed to be that.

* * *

“I’m going,” Ariana said at breakfast the next morning without any warning. She poked Draco in the arm, hard, with her knife. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, except she hadn’t wiped it off or anything, and now there was lemon curd dripping down Draco’s sleeve.

“Going where?” Draco didn’t bother to hide his smile. Ariana _knew_ things, and it was possible, just this once, that Draco would be able to figure out how she knew things. 

Filch knew things too, come to think of it, but most people thought it was because he knew all the secret tunnels in the castle. They weren’t all that secret anymore, but he could still appear out of nowhere with his cat whenever trouble was being caused.

“To Grimmauld Place,” she said, slathering more jam on her muffin.

“Of course you are,” Draco said. “There wasn’t any question of that. But you should wait five minutes after spying on people and give them an opportunity to ask you.”

“It’s not spying,” Ariana protested, then, realizing what she said, her eyes widened and she took a hasty gulp of her pumpkin juice to avoid having to say anything else.

She certainly wasn’t managing it the way Rita Skeeter had done so; her Animagus form was _enormous_. No one would possibly overlook her.

“If it’s not, how did you know?” Draco asked, very gently.

“Harry Potter’s not the only Parselmouth in the school, you know,” she snapped.

“You speak to snakes? Budge up there.” And he sat down on the other side of Ariana. “That’s a rare ability.”

“Yeah, mushmouth, hurrah,” Ariana said. “Uncle has it too, even if he doesn’t realize.”

“Filch can talk to snakes?”

“No,” she corrected. “He can talk to cats. Specifically, his cat. And I can talk to bats. It’s not as rare a gift as people think. But how many witches do you know who go wandering out in the woods to see if they can communicate with bowtruckles?”

“Huh?”

“Well, that’s true, Harry,” Granger said, sitting down opposite of them. “Parsel doesn’t mean _snake_ , after all.”

“It means _deformity_ ,” Ariana said. “That there’s something wrong with my mouth that lets me speak _bat_. And here’s the thing. Just because I can speak to bats, and understand bats. I mean, they’re like people, you know. They don’t have to listen to you. Most of them don’t, really. They don’t care, they rarely even notice. They don’t have anything to say to us. It took me forever to get Peekaboo to listen to me, and even now, she really still does whatever she wants to do.”

Ariana stuffed the rest of her muffin in her mouth and chewed defiantly. 

“And what Peekaboo likes to do is listen in on other people’s conversations?”

“Bats _gossip_ ,” Ariana said. “Once you get them to listen to you, once they know you can hear them, and once they’ve decided you’re pretty decent, they’ll tell you anything. Everything. They tell me a lot of things I don’t want to know. And sometimes I just hear them. There’s a whole colony living in Hogwarts. _Huge_. Millions of them.”

“It’s a wonder you can sleep at all,” Harry said, patting her shoulder. “I know how bad it was for me when the basilisk was running around in the pipes. I can’t imagine hearing millions of people talking, all the time.”

“Now you’re getting the idea,” Ariana said. “And I’m going.”

“Yes, yes you are,” Harry said. “You’re Draco’s best friend, of course you’re coming with us.”


	18. The Feeling of Euphoria

Grimmauld place was much nicer now that Great Aunt Walburga had been moved from the front hall to one of the very important art galleries.

“The curator there said she’s even mostly polite, hardly yells at all, unless there are Muggle-born in that wing of the museum,” Harry told them. 

“Which is to say almost none at all,” Granger sniffed. “Who wants to go look at a bunch of portraits of pureblood dunderheads anyway?”

“This is Sirius Black’s house?” Ariana asked. “Somehow, I would have thought it would be more red.”

“He tried, while he was alive,” Harry said, sadly. “We pretty much went to war with the house. I think it was a pyrrhic victory. It’s my house, now. Plenty big enough, though. Lots of room for guests. Or parties.”

“Or practicing dubiously legal magic,” Weasley said. “Remember testing out Fred and George’s extendable ears? This used to be where the Order of the Phoenix met, before Dumbledore died. And they weren’t keen on letting us know what was going on, even though we was all staying here.”

“So they tried to spy, emphasis on try,” Granger said. “But we did have some good times, here.”

Kreacher had tea all laid out for them, and Weasley didn’t hesitate to help himself. Which meant Ariana wasn’t shy about taking up a teacup and an eclair.

Soon they were all eating and chatting, except Draco. He couldn’t help it. If there was a window in the kitchen to look outside at London, he would be doing that. Or pacing, if people weren’t there to watch him. As it was, it was all he could do to maintain his composure. His nerves were utterly, utterly shot. Waiting longer did nothing but make them worse.

Harry noticed.

Because of course he did.

If Draco had to be honest, he would have known that Harry had been obsessed with him from the very beginning. Even in their first year, those green eyes had followed Draco everywhere. First with anger and dislike, later with distrust and suspicion, and then eventually, reluctant admiration, fondness.

Love.

Draco couldn’t have hidden his feelings from Harry if his life depended on it. And not even when it did.

“You three enjoy a bit of a nosh,” Harry said. “We’re going to get started. I’ll yell if I need help.”

The room that Harry led him to was mostly bare, aside from a few tables with supplies and mats down on the floor.

“Dueling room?”

“Used to be,” Harry said. “We mostly use it for spell practice, now that the Room of Requirement’s gone. Hermione’s been studying those spells, too. She made a really nice purse last year that was bigger on the inside. We’re going to see if we can reconstruct-- well, some of the spells, at least.”

“You three, always with your big plans,” Draco said. “The-- the polyjuice is going to wear off soon.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I won’t look at you, if you’d rather I didn’t.”

“It’s fine. I don’t know how you manage to make everything fine, but you do.”

“It’s a gift.”

There were enough things in the room for Draco to find a pillow and hurl it at Harry’s head. Harry deflected it with a flick of his wand and put it back in the box. “Charms was always a fun class.”

The familiar wriggling of his insides consumed him, blocked out all thought for a moment, until he was smaller, thinner, squishy and rounded, black and blond hair in his face. “Ug.”

Harry was at the tables, already laying out the items they’d need. Potions and scrolls, charms and pendants and the unmarked runestone.

Enen Draco’s wand felt strange, in Maia’s hand.

“One step at a time,” Harry said. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

“Right,” Draco said, wincing at the sound of that voice. High pitched. Girlie. Ug.

“Start the incantation to change your voice,” Harry said. “Think about how you want to sound.”

“I know,” Draco huffed. He took a breath, waved his wand, careful of his movements. Said the incantation; the very last time he would use Maia’s voice.

He thought about his voice, not his father’s, not Maia’s, but his. A voice that belonged only to him. What he wanted to say in the world, how he wanted to be. What he wanted the world to hear when they listened to him. He glanced up.

What he wanted Harry Potter to hear.

“I love you,” Draco said, and it was _Draco’s voice._ A little softer than Lucius, a little more rounded on the accents.

Harry blinked, swallowed hard. “That’s a thing to say with your first words,” he admitted.

“Only thing I wanted to say.”

“You know I love you, too,” Harry said, putting his hand on Draco’s cheek. “No matter what, no matter what you look like or sound like. Just what you _are_ like.” He put his other hand over Draco’s heart.

“I know.”

“Ready to move on, then?”

“Yes.”

“Potion for secondary gender characteristics,” Harry said. “They need to come up with a better name for that, I don’t like--”

“Me either,” Draco said. “Whoever made it in the first place was being an arse.” He didn’t think about the Bearded-Lady potion, either, he just drank it.

And then he had to sit down for a while, because his head was spinning and he felt like he might cast up his accounts.

“You’re all right, there?”

Draco nodded, unwilling to open his mouth just yet. Also, the adam’s apple felt very strange, like a lump that he couldn’t swallow, or the feeling of having accidentally inhaled a sweetie.

“I can do it,” Harry volunteered. “If you want, I know--”

“You know the spell,” Draco said, his new voice a bit hoarse. “I know. I can--”

“You don’t have to do it all yourself,” Harry told him.

“All right, then, you do it.”

“ _Vir ad Virum,”_ Harry spoke the incantation, his wand moving easily in his hands. It always seemed so strange to Draco that Harry could have had the Elder Wand and choose never to use it. And yet, Draco was pretty sure he didn’t want the Wand of Death -- that had killed so many people -- to help him be reborn.

Maybe Harry had the right of it.

“That was-- a little less magical girl transformation than I was expecting,” Harry said, tucking his wand away.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a sort of muggle story, usually about women, who gain special abilities through changing their clothes. I don’t know, I guess sometimes magic is not as spectacular as I would have thought. Would you like to see? In case there’s some changes?”

He was looking down at Harry. “Huh. I’m taller than I might have expected.”

Harry took that as permission and conjured a mirror. “I like the hair.”

Draco peered at himself.

Tall, slender. A little more forehead than he expected. Hairline receding at not quite twenty. Strong jaw, with a scruff of beard on his chin.

And the hair, like his mother’s, only backward, a dark fall of hair in his face from extra long fringe and blond in the back.

“You look good,” Harry said. “Kind of punk, really. You just need a dragon leather jacket and some spikes.”

“I’m going to pretend that made sense, Potter,” Draco said.

He couldn’t stop _looking_ at himself.

“You look amazing,” Harry said.

“I know.”

“And you always were vain,” Harry retorted, but he was laughing, so that was all right.

“And you never could stop looking.”

“Never.”

Draco stared for a while longer, unable to really believe for a long time, and then, slowly, it sank in.

This was who he was.

This was who he was always meant to be.

“Rune?”

“Yes.”

Draco opened his robes, looking at himself, bare flat chest with a little hair, taut belly. Muscular legs. 

“Mmmm,” Harry said, standing behind him, admiring. “You really do look good enough to eat.”

Draco’s dick twitched at that. His very own desire. “Later,” Draco said. He placed the runestone over his heart and the rune on it lit up with its own glow, pale green.

Ready.

Visualized this form, inhabiting this body, for all the days of his life. It would grow old, it would get ill. It would die. And he would be in it. Always.

Draco pushed the rune into his chest.

It hurt.

Like being born must have hurt, if he could have remembered it.

Reborn.

Finally, it was over. There was only a faint scar on his chest, just above the ones Harry had made those many months ago, to indicate that it had been there at all.

No rune.

No Maia.

Only Draco remained.

Harry pulled Draco’s robes closed and fastened them. “Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“To rejoin the world.”

“With you.”

Because for the first time, people were going to ask questions. They were going to see, they were going to wonder. Especially knowing the Dark Lord, looking back on the changes that he’d made to himself, long before the first war--

Draco gasped, clutching at his sleeve, and then tugged it up.

“I didn’t think you needed that anymore,” Harry said, almost apologetically. “When I envisioned you--”

“But I needed these?” Draco touched his chest.

“I needed them.”

“Ah, well, some scars never heal,” Draco said, philosophically. “You can kiss them later and make it better.”

“Among other things,” Harry said. “Let’s go show our friends how glorious you are.”

_Our friends._

Draco took a deep breath. It was going to be well. Everything was all right. And he had friends to stand by him.

“Let’s do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, well!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story. I know I really loved writing it. I'm sad, I really love Ariana Filch and her silly bat, Peekaboo. I feel very honored by all your lovely comments about this story, and I'm glad to have been a part of sticking it to "You-Know-Who."


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